


In The Red

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood Drinking, Blowjobs, Bonding, Creature Fic, Frotting, Gift Fic, Just really lots of sex, M/M, Magical Theory, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Pining, Post Hogwarts, Powerful Harry, Rentboy Draco, Rimming, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Switching, There's like 3k of plot in this, Vampire Draco, Vampire Sex, cursebreaker harry, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 23:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: When Harry goes looking for a vampire at a Creature club, the second-to-last thing Harry expects is to find Malfoy working there.The last thing he expects is to fall in love with him.





	1. Window Shopping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/gifts).



> Happy (belated, I'm so sorry!) birthday to [lq_traintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks/works?fandom_id=136512)!!!! From the minute I read my first drarry, your [Right Hand Red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178065/chapters/6903855), I fell into hard love with the pairing, with your writing style, and with what you were able to do with these boys. I never in a thousand years could have anticipated that someday I'd be able to call you one of my best friends. Honestly, I still can't believe it sometimes. LOL. I could write an essay on how reading your work has helped me feel better on countless occasions and was instrumental leading me to this fandom, which I love so dearly, but instead I'll just say: You are one of the funniest, warmest, _kindest_ people I've ever met. You're a kickass beta, an _unfairly_ talented writer, a complete badass when you're standing up for yourself or others, and such a loyal, fun, and compassionate friend, it makes me want to cry (to everyone else reading: I don't do that of course, 'cause I'm v cool. haha. Yep!). That I know you makes me feel very lucky, every single day. I love you bunches, bb.  <333
> 
>  **AN for readers: There is a tiny mention of something in the epilogue that could be a potential hard squick (I didn't feel it merits tags but I'm putting this here just in case). Please read end note to decide whether you'd like to read or not. _LQT, not you._** LOL.
> 
> A huge shout out of thanks to [magpie_fngrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl/works?fandom_id=136512), [julcheninred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/julchen_in_red/works), and [chibaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibaken/pseuds/chibaken), for catching my _abundant_ errors and helping me whip this into shape, letting me storyboard and cry at you, and just being awesome in general.  <3 And heaps of gratitude as well to all of the britpickers in the drarry discord. You guys rock.
> 
> Characters belong to JKR and associated publishers.
> 
> **Please DO NOT repost my work on instagram, wattpad, or any other sites, even with credit given. However, if you'd like to share with your followers, a screenshot of the header with accompanying link would be appreciated. Thank you.**

It’s not the sort of place he usually patronises. That bodes well, at least.

The club is dark, heavily Disillusioned, and the music blares painfully in Harry’s ears when he steps through the concealment charm. It pulses in time with the flashing lights, which set off the press of bodies on the dance floor and, more interestingly, what’s going on in the small alcoves that should perhaps remain hidden.

Harry wanders through the crowd, taking note of those who notice him, the wings that flicker as he passes, the growls that sound near his ear, the smiles that bare sharp teeth. He’s not in any danger — not from them, at least — but his heart thumps pleasantly at the illusion. 

He orders a drink at the bar and looks around as he waits. The creatures seem to clump together, like to like, individually chatting up the odd human who ventures into their groups. Concentrating, Harry can sense the different brands of their magic: Veela, werewolves, vampires. 

The younger kids, barely out of Hogwarts by the looks of them, seem fascinated by the Veelas. Harry understands the allure. Those pretty faces and the glimmering rustle of feathers are the most attractive, the least threatening — on the surface of things. The hardcore types, scarred and tattooed, seem to be drawn to the werewolves, even with their human visages in place. Perhaps they’re regulars and they know who to look for… Or maybe, like him, they can sense it, that hungry quality that promises a rough, uninhibited fucking. 

Harry wonders if they can knot without a full moon. The thought has its appeal.

But it’s the vampires he’s here to see tonight. The bartender brings his whiskey and he sips it as he turns to study them. The mode of dress in the place is bizarre, with seemingly no rhyme or reason beyond personal preference: some wear traditional robes, some are wearing t-shirts and torn jeans. 

His gaze lands on a man in a sleek suit, facing away and tossing a pale sweep of hair back as he chats with a vampire in more customary dress. Harry’s hand tightens until he feels the creak of glass against his palm. 

The man is tall and lithe and moves with an easy, lazy sort of grace, the slender muscles of his shoulders shifting under his fitted shirt as he gestures with elegant hands. He’s got a cigarette between two fingers and when he lifts it to take a drag, Harry catches a glimpse of the narrow cut of his jawline, sharp cheekbones and an even sharper smirk. Smoke rises in a curl of blue-grey as he exhales, and that’s when Malfoy turns his head and smiles — like he’s completely unsurprised to find Harry watching him.

Harry swallows his drink and sets down the glass before he breaks it. His feet are rooted to the floor and it’s _ridiculous_ that here, in one of the few places he’s been assured his anonymity would keep without a Glamouring charm, he’s run into someone who would just as soon let him burn to death as piss on him. 

Malfoy tips two fingers in a mock-salute as if saying hello, then holds up one — a curious gesture indicating he wants Harry to stay where he is. He says something to the vampire he’d been speaking with and turns to head in Harry’s direction. Harry’s breath stutters at Malfoy’s smooth, loping strides, an undisguised prowl as he weaves through the crush of bodies in his way. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says over the din when he pulls up at Harry's side. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He elbows a woman at the bar, wedging himself in so he and Harry are practically chest-to-chest, and gestures to the barkeep. A tall glass appears, slapped down on the counter in a hurry, filled with a sparkling, twilight-purple drink.

“Why am I surprised?” Harry manages easily enough, raising his voice to be heard, though his throat has gone dry. Malfoy… He smells good, _looks_ good, and Harry's not a little irritated to feel his cock twitching. “Seems like your kind of place if I'd thought to guess beforehand.” 

“Come on,” Malfoy says, rolling his eyes as though Harry’s just taking the piss. He takes a sip of his drink and pulls away with an indecent lick over its long, skinny straw. “You're not even a little relieved to see a familiar face? Anyway, as you said, I’m not the one whose presence is shocking. How’d you find the place?”

“Someone told me about it,” Harry says, gaze on the crowd again — anything to keep from seeing another swipe of Malfoy’s tongue over his straw, over his thin, shapely lips. “Don’t let me interrupt you. I saw you with that, er… bloke, before.”

The toe of Malfoy’s shiny Oxford connects with Harry’s ankle. He gives Harry a sinful little smile when he glares. “S’rude to avoid eye contact while having a conversation.”

“Is that what we were doing?”

Malfoy snorts. “I don’t know. We’ve never done it properly before, have we?”

The witch behind Malfoy bumps him and he lurches into Harry with a huff. But his free hand lands on Harry’s hip and his body is a firm, lanky press, and Harry finds himself disinclined to move away, even if he could — which he can’t, a man of more indeterminate nature stepping up to the bar to box him in. 

“Pretty sure you don’t come to this sort of place looking for a proper conversation,” Harry says. His voice comes out husky, wrong, lower than before now that Malfoy’s face is close enough for his hair to brush Harry’s forehead. 

“We can talk about my reasons for being here another time,” Malfoy murmurs, the fingers on Harry’s hip tightening, one long thigh pressed between Harry’s legs. “I’m more interested in yours. Is this what you do on your mysterious holidays out of Britain?”

“It’s none of your business what I do, whether I’m here or gone.” Harry swallows, cheeks hot. There’s no way Malfoy can’t feel his swiftly hardening cock in the position they’ve got locked in.

Malfoy leans back a little, nostrils flaring. He plucks the straw out of his drink and brings the glass up, throat working with long gulps as he downs it, then runs his tongue over the moisture clinging to his upper lip. He takes another drag of his cigarette, almost burnt down to the filter now, and stubs it out in Harry’s empty tumbler. 

“Maybe not,” he says in a voice that whispers like silk down Harry’s spine, “but it could be, if you wanted.”

“What are you on about?”

The thigh between Harry’s leg moves, a slow rub against his cock. Harry sucks in a breath.

“Well, what did you come here for?” Malfoy’s eyes glint strangely, the grey growing bright and glassy, almost fevered. “Not the Veelas. You didn’t seem overly impressed with them back in school. And I doubt the Weres, either, though I’ve been told that’s quite the experience; I’d wager you considered them. I’d guess the Boggart room — _brave, heroic soul_ that you are,” he says snidely, quoting the most recent Potter article out in _Wizarding Monthly_ , “but for some reason I don’t peg you for the type to get off on fear. At least not the sort you can dispel with a simple flick of your wand.”

“Oh, no?” It’s not Harry’s best comeback, to be fair, but he’s having a bit of trouble focussing, what with Malfoy’s thigh undulating slowly against his groin. “What type am I, then?”

“You want a vampire.”

“And what if I do?” Harry asks, tilting his chin up to meet Malfoy’s intense stare. He’ll be _fucked_ if he lets Malfoy intimidate him out of the place with a sly smile and an eerily accurate summation of Harry’s needs. 

The man at Harry’s back shifts away; with relief, Harry does too. Only Malfoy follows, spinning them so fluidly Harry doesn’t even realise it’s happening until it’s done, his spine trapped against the lip of the bar, Malfoy’s arms on either side of him.

“Well then, Potter, you’re speaking my language.”

In this position, Harry can feel Malfoy’s cock too, pressed high against his pelvic bone and equally hard. He huffs a disbelieving laugh. Malfoy’s eyelashes flutter, lower. He waits.

“What, did you want to introduce me to your friend?” Harry asks when Malfoy remains silent and expectant. “He’s not exactly what I go for, either. And you were doing so well guessing, before.”

Malfoy blinks. His biceps tense against Harry’s arms and his smirk flickers, fades, then breaks into a wide, incredulous grin. “Merlin, this ought to be more fun than I originally thought. You’re joking, right?”

Harry gauges him. Historically, it’s never been a good thing when Malfoy’s amused and he can’t figure out the source of it. 

“I’m always joking,” Harry says warily. “I’m pretty much known for my sense of humour. Glad to live up to my reputation.”

Malfoy laughs, breath sweet against Harry’s face. He gives a tiny, exasperated shake of his head. Their bodies are plastered together from chest to knee, Malfoy covering him, and just the _feel_ of his arousal is almost enough to make Harry worried he’ll come in his jeans. 

Almost.

“You’re certainly living up to one of them,” Malfoy mutters. The humour has fled his tone and his gaze is hard and shuttered, but a smile still toys with his mouth. He shifts deliberately and, when the slide of his body wrenches a shudder from Harry, seems to come to a snap decision. 

Wrapping cold fingers around Harry’s wrist, Malfoy tugs him up and away from the bar. Harry tries to shake off his grasp, but Malfoy’s grip is deceptively strong. Harry follows, an objection caught on his tongue — this was supposed to be recon, only — but too fascinated to actually voice it. Malfoy guides them quickly to a set of doors off in a corner, hidden until he taps the wall with his wand. 

“Your hand is freezing,” Harry says… stupidly, as it turns out, because when Malfoy twists his head to look at Harry, there’s a flash of lengthening fang behind his retracted lip.

“Is that so?” Malfoy says.

Thunderstruck, Harry manages a brief glimpse of their garish surroundings — faded velvet tapestries and chandeliers flickering pink candlelight over dripping, dusty crystals — before they’re heading up stairs, carpeted treads almost worn through. A small hallway, then Malfoy slants off to the right, hustling them into the first door. He spins them again, shutting the door with Harry’s back as he presses against him. Over his shoulder, Harry spies a huge bed, done up with a heavy satin coverlet and gauzy bed hangings.

“You’re a vampire,” Harry says blankly. Now that they’re not surrounded by people, Malfoy’s creatureness is obvious, Harry can’t believe he didn’t sense it before.

“I always said you were unobservant.” Malfoy snickers again.

“But— You’re a _vampire_.” Harry shakes his head, a wild surge of anger rising in him at… at _something_ and _everything_ ; Malfoy’s an arsehole to be sure, but he’s not supposed to be an _undead_ one.

“Mind telling me something I don’t know?” Malfoy asks. He swoops in, icy nose running over Harry’s neck. He makes a small, aching sound and exhales. He murmurs, “Like what you came here for, for instance.”

Harry swallows, his cock gone painfully hard. Two things he most definitely _should not_ be doing, wrapped up in a long, tight package moving against him with a teasing grind. 

Malfoy lifts his head. His eyes are glazed but his voice drips with condescension. “Or you could just continue gawping at me. But watching me wank won’t necessarily be cheaper and I assure you wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.”

It takes a second for Harry to absorb that but when he does, his breath hiccups to a halt. That word — _costs_ — shouldn’t come as the surprise it does. He knew what this place was when he came in, knew what went on here. Knew that, for the right price, he might find a resolution to his problems.

Malfoy strokes down Harry’s stomach. He slips Harry’s t-shirt up to trail his fingers against the slender line of hair between Harry’s belly button and waistband, then plays with the button of Harry’s jeans.

“You— You’re—”

“Yes, Potter. Me, I.” His voice deepens, roughens. “Catch up, would you? I didn’t think you were _that_ thick.”

Fuck it. Harry takes a deep breath.

“And you call _me_ unobservant.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen and grow dark. He glances downward, mouth twitching. “Fair enough. Well?”

“Let me see them.”

Malfoy rears back, a smug sneer pulling his upper lip. His teeth flash white in the dim, gleaming as his canines lengthen again. He pricks his tongue with the sharp point of one, then drags it over his lips before pressing them together and rubbing them. The gloss left behind smears across Malfoy’s mouth, messy like crimson lipstick after a round of snogging, and Harry’s breath leaves him in a rush. 

It's _wrong_. So perfectly wrong that Harry has to check the snarl rising in his throat. He came for a reason and can’t think of anyone in the free world less inclined to extend him a favour. 

But as it turns out, that doesn’t really matter.

Harry buries his hands in Malfoy’s hair and with a hard tug they’re kissing, just like that, the metallic tang of Malfoy’s blood cool against Harry’s taste buds. Malfoy growls, the sound muffled by Harry’s mouth, by the eager push of his tongue inside it. He strays to Harry’s flies again and the button opens with a soft snap, the zipper lowers with a quiet hiss. He slips his hand inside Harry’s jeans to grip his cock through his pants.

“Merlin,” Malfoy says hoarsely, jerking his mouth away. Some of his smooth confidence has unravelled with their kiss; he looks momentarily confused, but his hand doesn’t stop moving, fingers running light over Harry’s length, tracing the shape of it. 

“It’s not what I’m used to you calling me, but I’m okay with it,” Harry says, feeling more than a little undone himself, shock rippling through him like an electrical current at the realisation of how much he wants this, wants… Malfoy. 

Malfoy laughs, a surprised and surprisingly sweet sound. 

“You should hear what I call you behind your back,” he offers with a wry grin. He presses the mound of his palm to Harry’s cock, then tugs Harry’s jeans down and hooks the waistband of his pants under his balls. Harry sucks in a breath at Malfoy’s touch against his skin, warmer now with borrowed heat. Malfoy bites his lip, fangs tucking over it.

“What do you want?” he asks again. His touch is light now, teasing, but his gaze is intense. “What would you like me to do, Potter? I think I want to hear you say it.”

Harry swallows. He stills Malfoy’s hand but Malfoy doesn’t move it away, instead curling his fingers around Harry’s cock to give it a hard squeeze. Harry looks at the shine of his fangs, feels his pulse throb in his throat. In his cock. With more force than is perhaps necessary, he pries Malfoy’s grip from him and pushes him back. 

“Yeah?” Harry says. “Then shut up for once.” He lowers to his knees.

Malfoy makes a tiny, wounded noise. “Potter—”

But Harry shakes his head, adrenaline and instinct running hot through him the way they always do when he’s flying blind, when he’s confronted with any real threat. He finds and unclasps the thin, expensive leather of Malfoy’s belt. He leans his face in to rub his chin over the bulge of Malfoy’s cock, mesmerised by the small hitching breaths Malfoy’s taking above him, by the taut quiver of his thighs through his trousers when Harry places his hands on them. 

“Take these off,” Harry says. He licks his lips. 

Malfoy’s hands stray slowly to his flies. He undoes them wordlessly while Harry reaches up to unbutton the lowest buttons of Malfoy’s shirt, baring his stomach to just above his navel. Malfoy inhales sharply at the brush of Harry’s knuckles against his jumping muscles there. He pushes down his trousers, letting them pool around his knees. He hesitates. 

“Go on,” Harry says, gaze trained on the shape of Malfoy’s erection through his plain black boxer-briefs. 

Suddenly clumsy, Malfoy obeys, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and trying to nudge them down. His cockhead catches on the elastic once, twice. Finally he simply jerks them down with a small hiss, cock popping free to bob in front of Harry’s face, impressively rigid, curving upward toward his belly. Saliva pools in Harry’s mouth at the thick bead of moisture that clings to the slit. He works Malfoy’s pants lower for him and rests his thumbs in the indentations under Malfoy’s pelvic bone, fingers spread around his hips. Malfoy’s arse flexes under his grip.

“Keep your teeth out,” Harry says, then slides his lips over the tantalising girth of Malfoy’s cock. 

Malfoy curses breathlessly, cock jerking heavy against Harry’s tongue, precome spitting out. So Harry keeps going, mouth descending inch by inch until the head bumps into his soft palate. He finds his own cock with one hand, stifling a groan as he grips it, and peeks up. 

Malfoy’s staring down at him, open mouthed, fangs bared in a silent snarl. His incisors have sharpened along with his canines, and his pupils have dilated so wide Harry can’t see a hint of grey around them. Harry takes a breath and relaxes his throat.

“ _Potter!_ ” 

Malfoy’s hands unfist and fall to Harry’s hair, clenching the strands so tight his scalp stings, but even that’s good — too good, Malfoy working Harry’s head back and forth at a quickly increasing pace, fucking his throat with a low whine of desperation. Harry widens his knees and tugs faster on his prick, drool starting to seep from the corners of his mouth, so turned on he can hardly bear it. He tongues at Malfoy’s tight foreskin, bunching it toward the base of his prick as best he can with his nose practically buried in Malfoy’s soft pubic hair. 

Harry pulls in air through his nose when Malfoy finally cants his hips back and swallows around him after Malfoy’s next frantic, deep drive forward. His throat hurts and his balls _ache_ , but he forces himself to slow his hand, not ready for it to be over yet. He pulls back against the resistance of Malfoy’s hands, teeth grazing over the ridge of Malfoy’s prick.

“Watch it,” Malfoy grits out, but when Harry glances up, his snarl has tilted up at the edges. _He liked it_. Harry snorts and pulls off, unsure what the pulse of pleasure in his chest means.

“No,” he says flatly. “You watch it.” 

He ducks his head out from under Malfoy’s hands and swallows him down again. This time, he adds a suck. Malfoy groans, staring down at him, hands hovering in the air for a second as though tempted to hold Harry’s head again. Instead they fall to his sides and Harry lets his mouth slide back and forth over the hard length of Malfoy’s shaft, hot and wet with his saliva. The flavour of his precome grows stronger, not bitter like the other men Harry’s done this with, but sweet with an underlying hint of salt. He lets Malfoy’s prick pop free with a loud slurp to lap at it, Malfoy’s spit-soaked erection jerking up with every lick. 

“I am,” Malfoy says heatedly. Harry glances up again to see lust cast tight across Malfoy’s face, and something softer too, something that makes _Harry_ feel soft and a little bewildered. Malfoy’s chin tucks closer to his chest. “I am watching it, Potter. Watching you lick my cock. Do you know how good you look?”

“Oh, _god_.” Harry dives lower with a rumbling moan to take Malfoy’s entire sac into his mouth. He sucks Malfoy’s risen testicles away from his body, the delicate skin crinkling against his moving tongue as he swipes it around them. He knocks Malfoy’s legs wider with his hand and brings one hard knuckle up to massage his perineum. Malfoy’s wet there, too, Harry’s saliva dripping over his balls, down into the crevice of his arse. Malfoy grunts, rotating his hips with a tiny wiggle, hands coming up again and dropping, lightly this time, onto Harry’s head.

 _This is **Malfoy**_ , he thinks, a wild, inexplicable surge of pride tearing through him.

“I’m going to come, Potter,” Malfoy warns raggedly. Harry likes it, likes that half-mad note in his voice. It’s just so... _unlikely_ , all of Malfoy’s posh swagger dissolving under Harry’s tongue.

The whole thing is unlikely, and not remotely what he came here for, but he can't bring himself to care.

Harry wants to smile, maybe does a little, heartbeat roaring in his ears like white noise, the swamp of shaky desire streaking through him making him glad he’s on his knees. He releases Malfoy’s balls and ducks down to push his face between Malfoy’s legs, parted lips grinding with soft, smacking sounds where his knuckle was. He reaches up and finds Malfoy’s cock, stroking it in a tight grip, and then Malfoy is bowing over him, cracking groans breaking free from his throat. He comes with long, shuddering pulses, ropes of spunk hitting Harry’s cheek and jaw and hair. He thrusts into Harry’s fist, fingers twisting in Harry’s hair again, gasping noisily until his cock is empty. 

Heart still pounding, Harry rests his forehead against the cool, soft skin of Malfoy’s inner thigh and laughs shakily. His cock is as hard as it’s ever been and he needs to come, but he can’t shake the dreamlike fog engulfing him. He’s just sucked off Draco Malfoy in a seedy room upstairs a creature club. He should probably be ashamed; Merlin knows the people he loves would be appalled at the whole situation. But all he feels is maddened, delighted, _alive_ , Malfoy’s spunk dripping down his temple, marking him. 

He looks up to find Malfoy’s gaze on him again, dark with intent. Harry’s strange euphoria starts to recede but then Malfoy’s hand grips his hair to haul him up, to wrench his head to the side. Harry’s breath catches. 

“Wait—” he forces out, gaze on Malfoy’s fangs. But all Malfoy does is mouth at him and lick off the long streaks of his own come with cool swipes, a mindlessly pleased growl breaking free from his throat.

“Let’s go to the bed.” He finds Harry’s dick, squeezes it. Harry groans. He can feel Malfoy’s smirk, and _fuck_ , even that feels good, Malfoy’s smugness against his skin. “Take off your denims and have at me, Potter.”

“Are you always so pretentious?” Harry swallows, dropping his head to his shoulder as Malfoy latches his lips against Harry’s neck and sucks. “Call them jeans, why don’t you.”

“If you want someone who doesn’t give a toss how they sound, hunt up an American Muggle,” Malfoy murmurs, still stroking him with an indolent hand. “Come _on_.”

Harry’s gaze falls to the bed, a kernel of something ugly rising in him at the thought of Malfoy bedding other men there. 

“Here,” he says, rolling his hips into Malfoy’s sly touch. “Just… Don’t stop.”

Malfoy does though, pausing for a fraction of a second and lifting his head. His pale brows furrow and his fangs shrink a little, points disappearing. His jaw bunches and he draws his head further back with a disconcertingly cool smile. 

“Whatever you say,” he murmurs.

Harry looks at him, alerted to something by Malfoy’s tone. But before he can figure it out, Malfoy’s tugging on his cock, long fast pulls from base to tip, fist narrowing ruthlessly around the aching head. The loud, wet slap of it as Malfoy eyes him impassively might be mortifying if Harry could feel anything other than his swiftly rising climax, but as it is, it’s just excruciatingly hot.

“Kiss my… my neck,” Harry breathes. It’s an invitation to danger and an utterly daft one at that, but he bares his throat anyway and hears another faint growl as Malfoy’s grip on him tightens. “Just— don’t bite—”

“‘Course not. It’s not what we’re about, is it, Potter?” Malfoy pushes him flush with the door, unmindful of the _thunk_ of Harry’s head against it, tongue running over Harry’s pulse. His cock twitches against Harry’s hip as he pulls blood to the surface of Harry’s skin with hard sucks, wanking him almost frantically. 

Then Malfoy does bite him, dulled teeth sinking against him painfully. Harry distantly hears his own cry as he fucks rough into Malfoy’s touch and starts to come. Shaking from the force of it, he clings to Malfoy’s shoulders, cock shooting warm semen over Malfoy’s fingers. Malfoy catches some with a twist of his hand on the downstroke and swipes it over Harry’s jerking cock, milking it with carelessly tight pulls until Harry sags against the door, arms falling to his sides.

Awareness returns to him slowly: Malfoy’s touch vanishing from his body; a flash of white teeth; a hand scraping tousled platinum hair back. By the time Harry’s reoriented enough to pry himself off the door, Malfoy’s tucked himself away and ambled to the middle of the room to drop into a burgundy chair, long legs sprawled out before him. He eyes Harry wordlessly and pats his pockets. He retrieves a crumpled pack of cigarettes and taps one out, letting it hang unlit between his lips. 

“I was right,” he says. “This was amusing.”

“Happy to oblige,” Harry says, belatedly moving to clean and cover himself up. His throat is pleasantly sore and his body feels watery, still thrumming with little shocks of residual pleasure, so he walks over to the opposite chair in green — ironic, that — and gingerly perches on the edge of it. Though Malfoy dragged him up here with barely a warning and looks just as unruffled as he had downstairs, Harry can sense his dissatisfaction. He clears his throat.

“What do I owe you?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, a smile flickering at the edges of his mouth. “It’s on the house. Satisfied a curiosity of mine.”

Harry blinks. “Which was?”

“How you’d be as a shag,” Malfoy says blithely, fiddling with his cigarette. He heaves himself up from his chair with a sigh. “Feel free to use the attached bathroom if you need before you leave. The door won’t allow you back out — you’ll have to use the Floo,” he says, gesturing to the small fireplace in the corner. He looks at Harry with slitted eyes. “Have a good night.”

“Wait,” Harry says as Malfoy strides toward the door. He stands. 

“Is there something else?” Malfoy asks. “You did come, didn’t you?”

“About as well as you did,” Harry says. Malfoy looks at him, gaze veiled. He shrugs and opens the door, then turns back with a thoughtful frown.

“Don’t come back,” he advises. “The second you walked in, every creature within smelling distance of you got their hackles up. We’re low-profile for the most part, but accidents have been known to happen.”

Harry sputters, amusement edging out his confusion. “Are you threatening me?”

Malfoy snorts. “Please. If anything, I saved you tonight. And again,” he says pointedly, “I didn’t charge you for it. Good luck, Potter.”

The door closes behind him, the twinkle of heavy wards falling like a curtain over it before Harry manages to snap his mouth shut. He sinks numbly back into his vacated chair and tries to process the whirlwind of the last thirty minutes — none of which he’d anticipated upon coming here. 

That doesn’t happen to him very often these days. He considers busting through the wards but Malfoy’s little smirk as he’d shut the door stops him. 

His neck is tender and he reaches up to probe the bruise Malfoy left on him, gently investigating the indent of teeth — human teeth. 

The bastard didn’t even break the skin.

~*~

> There’s no real way to describe what Potter’s presence did to the club. I wasn’t kidding when I said I saved him. As soon as he arrived, everyone’s aggressive tendencies went on high alert — including mine, I suppose. It took me several minutes of posturing with the other creatures and a couple more of careful coercion with my own set before I could approach him.
> 
> I meant to get him out of there; call it payback, of sorts. What I didn’t expect was to get so high off his scent in close quarters that the next thing I knew I’d be grinding him against the bar — or that he’d be just as turned on. But I did and he was, and I’ve never been one to let an opportunity pass.
> 
> Trading in the bite was money easily made for me then. It was near-equal to sex — better than, for most — and saved on the cost of feeding. Blood can be pricey depending on your tastes, and mine always did lean toward expensive. The way Potter smelled, his blood wouldn’t even be stored top-shelf; he’d be hidden in the coolest, most warded depths of the cellars, behind the last two worldly bottles of 1694 Elfe Margaux. The Chosen One thing, I supposed, of course he’d be appealing. Still, I was rather proud of managing not to partake, though I’m not so noble to deny wanting to. I came far too close, really, the splatter of my come on his cheek mingling our scents, the milky sapphire of his carotid throbbing a fast tick under my tongue. 
> 
> The sex was bloody fantastic, _disappointingly_ so, especially given his disinclination for a fuck. Trust Potter to be the only man in the world to come to a vampire renter and want to go on his knees. He looked brilliant doing it, lips pink and plumped and stretched around my cock, like every dream I used to insist I hadn’t had back in school: on his knees before me on the wet tiles of the Quidditch locker room, slurping quietly on my cock under a table in Potions class, pushing me into a dark alcove off the corridors after a fight and ducking under my robes; there’d been thousands of them, it felt like. To so perfectly personify them… Well, honestly, there had to be something wrong with him. 
> 
> Maybe that’s why I didn’t charge him. Yet another impulse I knew I shouldn’t have listened to, considering I was so hungry by the time I left that I ended up spending the rest of the gold I had on me on blood at the bar, before retiring to my flat — without recouping any of it.
> 
> It didn’t matter, I told myself. My only real lie of the night. Well, that and one more.
> 
> My curiosity was nowhere near satisfied.

~*~

Nursing a dislocated shoulder in Venezuela the following week, Harry’s mind returns to the moment again and again: the tiny quirk to Malfoy’s lips as he’d closed the door behind him, the complicated heat from before. Harry resents the memory — it was supposed to be a one-off.

No, it wasn’t _supposed_ to be _anything._ Certainly not something that would bring him back to the UK sooner than he intends. But old habits die hard, and in what’s _clearly_ Harry’s worst, he lets Malfoy’s vampirism obsess him over the course of the next few weeks, until work becomes less of a mission and more of an excuse to not think about what happened. 

So after a curse explodes at his back, he finds himself at Ron and Hermione’s door, Apparating there as soon as his Portkey lands him in London. There’s too much empty space when he goes too long without seeing them, anyway, despite the way they tend to fuss.

Hermione hugs him too tightly and he rests a hand in her floof of hair, grateful to be back, but her eyes are narrowed when she pulls away. She palpates the back of his ribs, a soft scowl on her face when he winces. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t able to funnel a curse in time,” he says, rolling his eyes when Ron hesitates to hug him. Harry wraps him up pointedly, pounding on his back until Ron coughs and shoves him away with a laugh. 

“None of them have got him yet, though,” Ron says dryly, nudging Hermione with his elbow. 

“How long can you stay?”

“A few days or so,” Harry says. “Hey, I missed you guys.”

Hermione sighs, expression softening. “You’re back sooner than last time,” she says as though it’s something, at least. Harry supposes it is; she and Ron have hated the danger Cursebreaking has put him in and how much he’s thrived off of taking such risks from the start. But they bear up under it as well as they can; the work he does is necessary, and even they agree he’s uncommonly good at it. 

“Just in time, too,” Harry says, sniffing appreciatively. He lets them lead him to the kitchen, where the smells of Molly’s cooking are slowly growing stronger, warming under a steady charm. 

Ron taps the warming charm to dissolve it and grabs a few plates, levitating them over to the table as Hermione unnecessarily helps Harry to sit. She tuts at him and sits down, shooting Ron a fond look as he carries over a casserole dish of shepherd’s pie and serves heaping portions. 

“So, why so soon?” Ron asks as Hermione shoves a wad of napkins at him. He tucks a few of them under the collar of his shirt and pointedly takes a careful bite. Harry laughs. 

“I wanted to talk vampires.”

Ron’s chewing slows. “I thought you said you didn’t need to research—”

“I said ‘not yet,’” Harry corrects. He looks at his plate, pleased at the rumble from his stomach. He never finds himself quite as hungry as he is when confronted with Molly’s cooking. He reminds himself to send her an Owl soon. He forks up a bite and groans delightedly, ignoring Hermione’s indignant little huff. 

“I’m fairly certain your exact words were, ‘no chance in hell, thanks,’” she says smoothly, pairing it with a small smile to show she’s not angry. She’s probably right, too; she usually is. 

“That was then,” Harry says simply. “I’m taking on bigger curses now.”

Ron and Hermione fall quiet, the implications more clear than they’d obviously like. Harry forces himself to swallow, doggedly working his way through the meal as they finish eating in silence. 

Dinner mostly done, Hermione pushes her plate away. “Okay,” she says brusquely. “You’ll need to start looking in the Public Creatures’ Register.”

Harry wipes his mouth. “The what now?”

“It’s like Hogwarts’ Book of Admittance,” she says. “Updated automatically whenever a witch or wizard living in the UK is changed or comes into their genetic birthright.”

“How is that different than what they wanted to do with werewolves?” Harry asks. 

“Well, they asked for one,” Hermione explains in her pragmatic way. “It gives them a measure of protection and equal rights, which as you know they’ve not always had. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than it was. Even Teddy’s on it… Didn’t you know that? Harry, shouldn’t you know that sort of thing?” She gives him a speculative look.

“It’s possible I’ve missed a few things,” he says. Ron snorts.

“And why would he, anyway?” Ron asks Hermione rhetorically. “They’re not even considered Dark, anymore. Well, except for—”

“Ow! Hermione!” Harry glares at her and rubs his shin. She colours and darts a glance at Ron, stabbing into her last bite a little viciously.

“Sorry. Leg spasm.” She clears her throat.

Harry looks at her. “Except for Malfoy.”

Ron and Hermione exchange a glance.

“You know about Malfoy?” Ron asks. 

“Of course I know about Malfoy,” Harry says blandly. “We went to school with him for six years.” 

“But— you _know_ about _Malfoy?_ ”

Harry shakes his head, a huff of irritated laughter escaping. “Emphasising words doesn’t really change the meaning of your question. Yeah, I know about him.”

“I’m shocked,” Hermione murmurs. Harry looks at her, then to Ron.

“See? She didn’t need to emphasise anything.” 

Ron rolls his eyes. “She never does.”

“How’d you hear about…?” 

“I ran into him,” Harry says. He takes off his glasses and scrubs a hand over his face. “What I want to know is why neither of you told me. And how long he’s been like that. And why he’s—”

“Well, it’s not as if we run in the same circles,” Ron says with a grimace. “Vampires aren’t considered Dark anymore, but they’re not exactly fit for— Uh, you know, polite society.”

Harry’s never given a toss about polite society but it’s interesting that Ron thinks it would matter. Even Hermione nods.

“Might be why they needed a registry,” he says bluntly. “Anyway, we got on. Sort of.” Heat climbs Harry’s neck and he wills it away. “Better than we used to, anyway. I thought— he might be able to answer some questions for me.”

Ron and Hermione exchange another look he can’t interpret, but thankfully all Hermione says is, “Maybe just check the Registry first,” before letting the subject drop. 

It’s not a bad idea, so the following day Harry Glamours himself and makes his way through the winding catacombs of the Registrar’s office to find that Malfoy’s name is indeed listed under _Vampires, British Descent_. He’s been a vampire for almost two years.

The knowledge of that sits uneasy in Harry’s chest. He wants to know what happened. How. Wants to fill in the details beyond where his own story with Malfoy ended. But his name in elegant, flowing script gives nothing more — not how long he’s been pulling at creature clubs, not whether or not he feels ostracised by society. A sharp stab of sympathy hits Harry. It seems a safe assumption to make: Death Eater-cum-vampire rentboy, cut off from everything he once knew.

***

In keeping with the tradition of being an epic pain in Harry’s arse, Malfoy manages to foil that safe assumption a mere two days later — laughing with Pansy Parkinson across the pub Ron and Neville drag Harry to. His eyes catch on the derisive tilt of Malfoy’s smile as soon as he follows Ron in, and Malfoy looks up with a shocked expression as Harry sinks into a booth, equally stunned. It’s like Malfoy can see right through the disguise of Harry’s lackluster features to the scar on his forehead.

Which, Harry realises, he’d not even need to. What had Malfoy called it? 

_Smelling distance._

There are easily half a dozen tables between them. More than a little perturbed, Hary wonders what it says about his body odour that Malfoy can smell him from all the way across the room and keeps stealing resentful glances.

“Yeah, that’s Malfoy,” Neville says, craning his neck to follow Harry’s gaze. Harry drops his eyes and Neville shrugs. “He’s been keeping out of trouble, don’t worry.”

“Really?” Harry asks, picking at his thumbnail. “How so? What’s he been up to, anyway?”

“Well, he’s, uh—” Neville glances at Ron, who narrows his eyes.

“Harry…”

“What?”

Neville clears his throat again. “He’s, uh, changed a bit.”

Taking pity on him, Harry nudges Neville with his foot. “I know. I… saw him, recently.”

“Really?” Neville starts to swivel his head again to look, but checks himself in time. “He never comes out, really. Not like this. He’s sort of like you, these days; you get glimpses of him once in awhile, but— Well, I don’t expect a lot of doors open to him since he…”

“What, became a Death Eater or became a vampire?”

“Both,” Neville says uncomfortably. “I’m not saying I’d like to run into him, you understand, but that’s mostly because he’s… well, Malfoy. Though he does…”

“He does…?” 

Neville’s cheeks darken and he takes another peek over his shoulder. Harry looks too; Malfoy’s staring at them, gaze flat. Neville shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He sighs and lowers his voice. “Anyway, no one sees him out much. I think mainly because vampires are reclusive. Gran always knows what people are up to and ever since he, uh, changed, even she has no idea. He’s not at the Manor, she knows that much.”

“This is a topic you guys discuss a lot?”

“Pureblood stuff,” Neville says dryly. “I’ll just go get our drinks.”

He heads to the bar and Harry looks over again to see Malfoy ducking his head to whisper something in Parkinson’s ear, gaze sliding to Harry once more. Parkinson flicks Harry a distrustful glance, her mouth pulling into a sour little bow of disapproval, and Malfoy rises with a small jerk of his chin in Harry’s direction. He makes for the loo.

“I’ll be right back.”

Ron catches his arm as he gets up, grip steady and strong as his gaze. “Don’t do it, mate,” he says plaintively. “Not him.”

 _Why **not** him, if it’s got to be someone?_ Harry doesn’t say it.

“Due diligence. Just going to say hi,” he says, shaking him off as Nev returns to the table carrying three pints. 

“In the bathroom?” Neville says behind him. Ron grumbles something in response Harry’s glad to not make out. 

When he pushes open the door to the loo, Malfoy’s lounging aggressively against the outside of a stall, arms folded over his chest. He looks good, if Harry disregards the scowl on his face. 

“Stalking me never ends how you think it will,” he says.

“How do I think this is supposed to end?” Harry asks, adrenaline already pumping high. 

“I don’t know, another wand fight in the bathroom?” Malfoy sniffs. “Have fun gossiping with your friends about me?”

“You’d know. You could hear everything, couldn’t you?”

Malfoy dips his chin, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“So what was important enough to interrupt my gossip session?” Harry asks. “I was riveted.”

He’s riveted _now_ actually, a realisation that does nothing good for his peace of mind. Malfoy’s exaggerated lean against the stall does even less, showing off the sharp cut of his black trousers, one long leg crossed languidly over the other. It makes the material stretch across his crotch, highlighting the soft bulge there. He’s got the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to the elbow and though Harry only catches a glimpse of his oddly faded Mark when Malfoy shifts a little, he gets the sense it’s a deliberate reminder. 

“I am rather fascinating, if I do say so myself.” Malfoy’s smirk fades. “I did it for your own bloody good, Potter.”

“Uh.” It takes Harry a second before he realises Malfoy’s not referring to sixth year or talking about wanking him off. “What’s that, now?”

“Banned you from the club. I’m not particularly known for my kindnesses, but believe me when I say that was one.” Malfoy peers at him, unclenching a little when Harry falters. “Isn’t that why you followed me?”

“People _go_ there for the danger,” Harry points out, recovering quickly. “Worried about me, Malfoy? I can take care of myself, you know.”

“So says every wizarding publication since 1998. Have you really not come back?” Absurdly, Malfoy looks a little offended. Harry bites back a smile. 

“You told me not to,” Harry says, like he’d been planning on cooperating. The pull toward Malfoy is inexplicable considering Harry’s immunity to hypnosis charms, but it guides Harry’s footsteps closer nonetheless. 

Malfoy cracks a humourless laugh. “And now’s when you value my opinion. Alright. Good to know. You just fucking refuse to let me…”

 _Win_ , Harry thinks he’s going to say. But Malfoy cuts himself off with a short, sharp exhale. 

“Why’d you come in here, then?”

“I’d been beckoned,” Harry mocks. “Why did you? Do vampires need the loo?”

“Of course we do.” His throat works silently as he watches Harry drift nearer. “When we eat and drink.”

“Why didn’t you bite me?”

“You told me not to. And anyhow,” Malfoy adds with obvious relish, “I didn’t _want_ to.” 

Harry swallows the bubble of laughter that threatens. 

“But you didn’t even think about it?” he says, slipping into Malfoy’s space, a direct reversal of their roles a few weeks ago. “I bet I taste as good as I smell.”

Malfoy sneers, sending a pleasant little jolt through Harry from the way his fangs flash. “That’s supposed to recommend it?”

This time, Harry does laugh. He lowers his eyes to study the growing shape of Malfoy’s cock pointedly and when he looks back up, Malfoy’s sneer has shifted to a glare.

“Seems like,” Harry says softly.

“Maybe that’s just a reaction to how easily I could kill you.” He snorts and lifts his wand, raising his eyebrows when Harry doesn’t move. A quick swish of it and Malfoy’s magic dissolves Harry’s disguise. “You looked stupid.”

Harry looks at him; there’s a compliment in there, somewhere. 

There’s no part of him that can pretend this is a good idea, but he’s known he was going to seek Malfoy out again since that night in the club. And anyway, Harry doesn’t think he can bear waking up even once more with his dick so hard it _hurts_ even though the inside of his pants is sticky, like he’s already come twice in his sleep. His stomach flips when their hips meet. Malfoy turns his head to the side.

“At least put up a fucking ward, if you insist on it,” he says under his breath, chest rising and falling against Harry’s. “And this one’s going to cost you.”

Harry flicks his fingers behind him, sealing the door. Malfoy glances over, a small knit high on the bridge of his nose, and finally looks at him again. His lip curls, fangs already sharp.

“We don’t have time for something that’ll cost me,” Harry says.

“ _Any_ of my time costs. What do you want, Potter?”

“What I didn’t get last time,” Harry says, heart skipping with nerves or desire, or both. 

Malfoy’s eyelashes lower. “You mean, what you turned down.”

Nodding, Harry says, “Didn’t want it in a whorehouse.”

“Just with a whore?” 

The word sends a shock of displeasure through Harry and he takes a step back, but Malfoy catches him, sliding his hands chillingly under Harry’s t-shirt, over Harry’s spine. He slips them down the back of Harry’s jeans, fingers digging in, and hikes Harry up an inch, fitting their bodies tightly together, rolling Harry’s hips against him. He’s just as hard as Harry is and their mouths are bare millimetres apart, lips brushing so lightly against one another’s Harry wonders if the intensity of his arousal is making him hallucinate it. But Malfoy’s breath is cool against him too, his fingers tight enough to bruise, and the duelling sensations centre him.

“Call this negotiation, then,” Harry says. “What else do you offer?” 

“Quite a lot,” Malfoy murmurs heatedly. He wiggles his hands deeper into Harry’s jeans to cup his arse, massaging the cheeks apart. “I offer everything. I’ll kiss you, anywhere you like. I’ll suck your cock so sweetly you’ll not be able to have a wank without remembering it. I think I’d enjoy that. I could finger myself for you, put on a show. Maybe you’d be the one coming on my face, then.” 

He pulls one hand out of Harry’s jeans to slide it around his hip. Harry shivers as Malfoy palms him boldly, investigating the swollen outline of his prick.

“And more,” Malfoy says, breath coming light and quick. He strokes down to tease Harry’s balls with barely-there touches for a few seconds, then moves back up to his cock. “ _More._ What if I bent over for you? Yes, that’s it. I could hold myself open, let you watch as you shoved _this,_ ” he squeezes Harry’s erection for emphasis, “all the way up my arse. Anything you like, for a price. Though I have to admit, I never took you as the type.”

“But you take all types, don’t you?” Quick as a Snitch, he grabs both of Malfoy’s wrists and pins them to the stall above his head, gripping them with one hand. He reaches between them and quickly undoes their flies. Malfoy arches against him like a cat, eyes flaring hot as Harry pulls his prick out and wriggles his own jeans and pants down far enough to free his cock. He circles them both with his fist, hissing at the press of hard-on-hard. 

“All of them,” Malfoy says, an unrepentant twist to his mouth. Harry surges forward to kiss it off, prising Malfoy’s lips open with his tongue. Malfoy’s wrists flinch in his grasp but his tongue slides readily against Harry’s, cool at first and then warmer. Harry licks over one elongated fang and Malfoy groans, wrenching his head back. “But I’ll charge you extra, just for the hell of it.”

Harry snorts. He strokes over them, seeking Malfoy’s mouth in another kiss. He’s so hard, his prick _drips_ , foreskin sliding along Malfoy’s in his grasp. He thumbs roughly over the leak of moisture from their slits and Malfoy groans as Harry pushes his middle finger between their cockheads to rub against the tender underside of Malfoy’s glans. When Harry pulls away to breathe, Malfoy’s slender lips are pink.

“Still get off on a power-play, do you?” 

“Hypocrite,” Malfoy says breathlessly. He closes his eyes, hair sliding against the side of the stall as he tilts his head back, his fangs peeking out from below his upper lip. He looks like a fallen angel, a rosy flush melting over the cut of his cheekbones, the high arch of his forehead creased. He fucks into Harry’s grip, cock throbbing. “ _Harder._ Come on, Potter. Dirty me up a bit.”

A ragged little moan slips out of Harry as he complies, jacking them in tandem with faster, tighter pulls of their pricks, sweaty palm issuing small smacking sounds each time he drags it down. It doesn’t take much; he comes swiftly, groaning and spurting over his knuckles and Malfoy’s prick. Malfoy follows right after, eyes wide open and fixed on Harry’s as he shudders out his climax in Harry’s hand, his soft cry swallowed in Harry’s kiss. 

Harry sinks against him, breathing heavily. He breaks the kiss and strokes over their softening pricks once more, then releases them to cling to Malfoy in an attempt at staying upright.

“I don’t really charge by the hour, but you’ll have to let go of me eventually,” Malfoy says, panting. His tone is wry and a still little throaty, and Harry glances up to see Malfoy’s gaze on his mouth, dark and oddly conflicted. 

“How do you charge?” 

The strange throb of uncertainty between them snaps at his question. Malfoy nudges him back with his hips. With a shaky exhale, Harry lets go of Malfoy’s wrists and pries his fingers off where he’s dug them into Malfoy’s ribs. He steps away, casting a perfunctory cleaning spell over both of them and pulling up his pants and jeans, the room still a little unstable around him. 

“On a case by case basis,” Malfoy says after a brief pause. He fishes his wand out of his pocket and points it at Harry again, renewing his Glamour and, strangely, clearing the smudges their close proximity has made on his glasses. He pushes off the side of the stall, wandering over to the the sinks and turning on the taps. Washing his hands briskly, he meets Harry’s gaze in the mirror. “Fifty Galleons, in this one.”

“Is that all,” Harry deadpans. “I’m surprised you didn’t empty my vaults for what happened last month.” 

Malfoy smirks and shakes off his hands, murmuring a quick drying spell over them. He turns and leans against the sink basin, raising an eyebrow. His hair is ruffled, but he looks remarkably unaffected for someone who just came so sweetly in Harry’s grip.

“Well, cough up. This has been fun and all, but Pansy probably thinks you’ve killed me in here by now.” 

“Yeah, well, Ron probably hopes that’s what I did.” Harry rolls his eyes and digs in his pockets, finally pulling out a ten Galleon piece. Malfoy huffs a laugh.

“You’re joking, right? That’s pathetic, Potter.”

Harry flicks it to him and Malfoy snatches it out of the air so deftly Harry doesn’t see him do it — just the gold catching the light as it spins, then disappears. He knows somewhere deep down he should feel guilty, but it won’t come. It feels too much like a challenge neither of them can back down from, a game they might have engaged in if they’d known it existed, once upon a time. 

“I can get you the rest,” Harry says. “Or—”

Malfoy’s eyebrow lifts higher. “Or?”

“I have plenty at home,” Harry says. “You could come there later. Do some actual work. Overcharge me again.”

Opening his hand, Malfoy looks down at the coin in it for a long moment. “Housecalls are a hundred. What’s your address?”

“12 Grimmauld Place. It’s—”

“I know where it is,” Malfoy says shortly. He tucks the Galleon in the pocket of his waistcoat. “Midnight. And take your friends elsewhere. We were here first.”

“We can’t share a pub?”

Malfoy straightens and approaches. “I don’t exactly trust that you won’t flatten me against the bartop and try to have me,” he says, voice low. An image flashes before Harry: everyone watching as he does just that, Malfoy’s long legs wrapped around his hips as his buttocks clench rhythmically. He swallows and Malfoy smiles. He drifts a light thumb over the side of Harry’s neck. “Use a freshening charm before you come out; you still smell like sex, for fuck’s sake.”

Touch dropping away, Malfoy heads to the door and hesitates, his hand on the handle. “Don’t mention the club to anyone.”

Harry inhales. Even telling him that much gives Harry leverage, which Malfoy’s got to understand.

“Got it.” He catches Malfoy’s free arm and Malfoy’s gaze flashes up to his. “I won’t.”

Malfoy looks at him, expressionless. 

“A hundred and fifty,” he says, and walks out.

***

“Fifteen minutes is a bit long to say hi,” is all Ron says, Neville discreetly looking away, when Harry rejoins them to hustle them out of the pub. But later, when Harry makes his excuses to leave, Ron claps him on the shoulder and leans in. “I don’t know what the bloody fuck you think you’re doing, but be careful, Harry.”

The reminder is unnecessary and Ron knows it, and the concern on his face seems unfair. But Harry just forces a smile and pats Ron on the back. “Aren’t I always?”

“Not funny,” Ron says but leaves it, though he gives Harry a significant look that makes him feel guilty.

He makes it home an hour early, body already primed for another go. Time enough for a shower, time enough for nerves to set in. Tidying up his bedroom takes almost no effort given how rarely he sleeps there these days. It’s best not to get ahead of himself, but he can’t resist the urge to check his watch as midnight nears, can’t help the disappointment that bleeds through as the hands hit twelve and there’s no accompanying knock on the door. 

Can’t help checking the stoop at precisely five after, just in time to see Malfoy Apparate with an impressively soft pop.

“Oh,” he says, blinking innocently when he sees Harry. “Did I keep you waiting?”

“Not really,” Harry says, grinning at Malfoy’s quickly-hidden scowl. He withdraws the purse from his pocket and dangles it, heavy with gold, from one fingertip. Like a Muggle magician, Malfoy takes it with a flourish of his hands, hiding it away somewhere within his cloak without counting it. 

“Well?” Malfoy looks past him. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Isn’t that a myth?”

“It’s common courtesy, Potter.”

“I thought we should talk, first.”

“Kinky.” Malfoy’s hand slides to Harry’s arm propped on the doorjamb, blocking his entrance. “But unnecessary. I can assure you that I can take whatever you’ve got to shell out.”

“And the reverse is also true.” Harry lowers his arm. Malfoy smirks and steps smoothly inside, taking care to brush their bodies close. Harry shuts the door. “But about the biting—”

He falls silent to see that Malfoy has halted, still half-facing him. His face is frozen, eyes wide, pupils dilating. His fangs are already out. 

“Changed your mind?” Malfoy says roughly, coming out of his strange trance. 

“Not— No,” Harry says, wanting to just from the compelling heat of Malfoy’s stare. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

“I won’t bite you, Potter,” Malfoy says, nose in the air like he’s scenting it, “but I’d never go so far to say _that_.”

Harry steps closer, but Malfoy’s hand stops him. He looks bewildered, almost like he doesn’t realise that his fingers are slowly sinking into Harry’s shirt, his pause turning into a grip. 

“Are you okay? Malfoy?”

“Are _you?_ ”

Malfoy pushes him back, just slightly, eyes unfocused. His fingers twist in the hem of Harry’s shirt and he lifts it off Harry without any warning, knocking his glasses crooked as he wrestles it over Harry’s head. Harry’s breath catches as Malfoy finds the mostly-healed gash on the back of his ribcage, fingers following its jagged edges. 

“What’d you have this covered with?” Malfoy murmurs. He doesn’t wait for a response, pushing his nose against Harry’s neck and inhaling, licking over the beat of his pulse. 

“Meditape,” Harry says under his breath, hesitating only slightly before tilting his head back to allow Malfoy better access. Malfoy rumbles out something suspiciously like a purr, the cold tip of his nose sending chills down Harry’s chest as his thumbs find and flick his tightening nipples lightly. 

Malfoy lifts his head, the soft pads of his fingers still circling Harry’s nipples insolently, grey eyes intent and oddly dreamy. “Cover anything like that up after your shower, next time.”

_Next time._

The assumption isn’t unwelcome. 

Harry tries to take off Malfoy’s shirt as well, but buttons ping off and the collar tears in his attempt to wrangle the thing off over his head. Malfoy looks down with a throaty chuckle as it finally drops to the floor, then presses his palm around Harry’s nape, silently directing his head in another tilt. He lowers his head and takes Harry’s mouth in a deep kiss, spiked fangs skimming Harry’s lower lip, tongue fucking firmly against his. He tastes like mints, his mouth so hot and slick the kiss blots out Harry’s senses. When Malfoy finally pulls away, Harry’s jeans are open and shoved down around his thighs, the backs of Harry’s knees have hit the edge of the couch, and he has no recollection of getting there. 

“Malfoy, what’s—? What are you doing?”

“Giving you your money’s worth,” Malfoy breathes, running hard knuckles over the underside of Harry’s exposed prick, which jumps at his touch. He uses his shoe to push Harry’s jeans and pants all the way off, then pushes Harry down onto the sofa. He shucks his ruined shirt, his trousers and loafers, discarding everything in a thoughtless heap on the floor, but leaves his black socks on, an absurdly sweet contrast to his pale skin. 

Harry’s mouth floods with saliva. Malfoy’s body is lovely, tall and elegant and almost coltishly thin, the jutting angles of the bones in his hips and ribs just prominent enough to define the muscles in his legs and arms and stomach. His chest is sleek and mostly bare between his beaded nipples, but under his belly button a narrow line of hair runs down to the neat thatch of curls surrounding his cock, long and flushed and arcing, balls pink and full beneath. Malfoy climbs in Harry’s lap and fits his face into the crook of his neck again. 

Shaking, Harry sifts hands through Malfoy’s silky hair and allows it. Malfoy’d only need to apply the slightest bit of pressure with his fangs and…

“Fuck,” Malfoy mumbles, muffled, tongue dancing light over Harry’s collarbone, over the tense cords of his throat. He brackets Harry’s hips with his feet, wedging them into the back of the sofa cushions and bending his knees to get closer. He humps against Harry clumsily, Harry’s cock skimming off his crease. “Put it _in_ me, Potter.” 

“Wait, for fuck’s sake, I want you wet, _wait—!_ ”

Malfoy hums into his neck, still blindly trying to fit Harry into him, awkward ruts pushing the stiffness of his cock against Harry’s stomach, precome trailing damply over his skin there. Harry takes a gasping breath and lets his head fall back, coasting his hand over Malfoy’s arse, fingers dipping in to soak his hole with lube. It flutters under his touch and Harry can’t resist pressing two fingers in, cock jumping with anticipation as Malfoy groans and sucks harder on his neck, fangs carefully covered with his lip. He rises, batting Harry’s hand away, and takes Harry’s cock in his grip, angling him. Harry holds his breath, heart stopping for a moment — a long, dizzying one in which Malfoy breaches himself on Harry’s prick, the ring of Malfoy’s sphincter stretching wet and tight around it. Harry pushes off against the floor in a bid to get deeper, hands gripping Malfoy’s hips as Malfoy continues to descend. 

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Malfoy breathes, lifting his head away. His pupils are blown, his unnaturally pale cheeks tinged pink. Settling, Harry’s cock lodged up deep, Malfoy blinks and tucks himself closer, his forehead against Harry’s. “I knew you had to be good for something.”

Harry’s unbidden laugh breaks off into a strangled moan as Malfoy starts to move. His cock is so deeply embedded that every tiny motion of Malfoy’s swiveling hips, every flinch of his inner muscles, sparks sensation down Harry’s shaft, lancing it up his spine, his balls already drawing up to hug his body. Malfoy plasters himself against Harry and works up a fast rhythm, softening inside, his cock dragging against the clenching planes of Harry’s stomach.

“Do you know what it’s like to get bitten as you fuck?” Malfoy asks, working Harry’s cock inside him with rough, grinding bounces. He leans back, one hand on Harry’s knee for balance, cock smacking indecently against Harry’s belly. It drives Harry impossibly deeper, and Malfoy’s tongue flicks out over his fangs — four of them, canines and incisors, all wickedly sharp. “The kind of orgasm it gives you?”

Harry slides his hands down, cupping Malfoy’s arse and spreading his cheeks. He can’t _think_ beyond the maddeningly good friction around his cock. He exhales shakily. “Mine’ll be good enough. Just shut up and keep, _fuck_ , keep doing _that._ ”

“Wasn’t an offer, Potter,” Malfoy chokes out. 

Malfoy’s lower lip disappears under his fangs. His eyes flutter closed and he allows Harry to speed up the pace of his hips, thighs trembling on either side of him, arse undulating over Harry’s prick. Harry pumps deeper, sweat trickling down his temples, glasses knocked askew on his face, and suddenly Malfoy’s back bends. “Fuck, _there_ —!” 

Harry bucks into him, control spiralling from his grasp. He can _feel_ the swollen little nub of Malfoy’s prostate rubbing against the ridge of his cockhead on every instroke, can feel Malfoy’s deliberate clenches melt into the unintentional rhythmic spasms of his oncoming orgasm, and his prick aches as his own need to climax rises to a frenzy, breath bursting out of him in small, needy wheezes. 

“Can I— Shit, Malfoy, I’m going to—”

Malfoy moans, taut and unmoving for Harry’s frantic thrusts upward, face tight with concentration. “ _Yes,_ I want it,” he rasps out. “Make me sticky with it.”

Harry shudders, yanking him down against his hips to hold him there, cock jerking inside him hard as he spills, flooding Malfoy’s hole with warm semen. The slap of skin on skin transitions into filthy wet squelches and Harry finds Malfoy’s leaking prick, pulling it from base to tip with graceless tugs as he comes. And then Malfoy’s coming too, a guttural shout tearing from his throat. His cock pulses in Harry’s hand, painting Harry’s belly with long, gleaming stripes as his body tenses and Harry fucks in and in and _in_ , blindly forcing his cock past every clamp of Malfoy’s arse. He squeezes the head of Malfoy’s prick and it oozes out another gob of come into Harry’s fist as his orgasm finally starts to slow. 

“ _Why,_ ” Malfoy says, voice thready, chest heaving, “are you doing this, Potter? If not for the bite?” He wriggles his hips, wrenching another groan from Harry.

“I’m a very stupid man.” Harry slips his hand up to Malfoy’s waist and tugs him closer. After a moment of resistance, Malfoy comes, settling against Harry’s chest and bending his face into Harry’s neck, idly licking over the sweat gathered there. Harry shivers.

“I already knew that,” Malfoy says. “Why else?”

“Reckless, too, people say.” Harry sucks in a breath when Malfoy writhes a little, slowly working his inner muscles around Harry’s softening prick. He pulls back, lips pursed. His gaze slides downward, sparking on his own come over Harry’s stomach and chest, pausing to look at the way they’re positioned, his legs on either side of Harry’s lap. When he looks up, there’s something in his face that makes Harry’s calming heart skip a beat. 

“Why, really?”

“Call it an experiment,” Harry says. Malfoy shifts a bit, blinking. Harry opens his mouth, but Malfoy interrupts him with a sardonic smile. 

“To test what hypothesis?”

“Maybe I was just curious too,” Harry says.

“And?” 

“And I think,” Harry says as Malfoy pulls further away, one patrician brow lifting, “it calls for further research. Why are _you_ doing this?”

Malfoy licks his lips, fangs shrinking. He slides off Harry’s lap with a tiny grimace and stands. 

“Unspeakables pay a hundred Galleons a go for research subjects,” he says. “And while I think they get off doing it, it’s probably more mental stimulation on their part.”

Harry snorts and looks at him. 

“Name your price,” he says.

“Depends on what you’re looking for,” Malfoy says, bending to grab his clothing. He pulls his wand from his cloak to cast a cleaning charm over himself and Harry regrets the loss of those shiny streaks down the insides and backs of Malfoy’s thighs, the way his cock suddenly looks unused. He starts dressing and tilts Harry a curious look. “You’re not often in town, as far as I know. Would you be looking for a quick bit of research whenever you pass through?”

“I’ll be back more regularly for awhile,” Harry says. He clears his throat. “Say, twice a week for… I don’t know how long.” 

Malfoy jumps a little as he tugs up his trousers. He slips his shirt on, holding it closed in irritation when his tailoring charms don’t work. 

“Simple enough. Two hundred. For something like this. Plus recompense for any damages,” he says with a mulish look. “Each time.”

“And what if I want something more?”

“More,” Malfoy echoes, brow furrowing. His eyes clear. “What more? I’d wager you don’t need to pay someone to stroke your...ego.”

It shouldn’t be charming, the flicker of perverse amusement around Malfoy’s mouth, but it is.

“And how much would get you to agree to that?” Harry asks

“Gringott’s doesn’t carry the amount,” Malfoy says. Harry snorts as Malfoy sits in a side chair to slip his shoes on. Malfoy glances at him. 

“But you can Owl me,” he says quietly. “And we can work something out.”

“Done,” Harry says.

~*~

> Pansy was livid after dinner, dragging me aside and pressing me until I explained what happened. 
> 
> “Potter can hurt you,” she said.
> 
> That much, I already knew.
> 
> I considered not going. I wasn’t that certain of my control, having given in so quickly in the loo, Potter pressing close and smelling the way he did. I could envision biting him so clearly: rivulets of blood seeping down the back his shoulder, hypnotic scarlet threads leaking from the soft inside of his thigh toward his arse. I’d never intended to have him at the club and already I couldn’t resist him, couldn’t look past his **wanting** of me. 
> 
> I wanted to see where it went. Potter’s unbridled desire and indifference to its context were the slap of a glove against my cheek. It required a response, didn’t it? For honour’s sake.
> 
> “You don’t know what you’re doing, Draco,” Pansy said.
> 
> When did I ever, where he was concerned?
> 
> Potter’s home was its own sort of punishment for my curiosity, the world lurching around me as he shut the door — every bloody centimetre of the place was saturated with him. I could sense turmeric-tinged sweat coming from the kitchen, could smell lingering notes of his spunk from an afternoon wank Potter’d had on the sofa. Pheromones hung heavy in the air like ripe fruit and my cock lengthened brutally fast in time with my teeth.
> 
> I barely remember the sex so much as the blur of chemistry and feel-good endorphins flooding my system, Potter’s heat sweltering against me, warming me up from the inside out. On the occasion a punter wanted a shag back when I did frequent bedwork, it was always in _addition_ to the bite. They’d get off twice, and I’d be paid in money and blood. Better than when I was human, at least.
> 
> That sex could be so devastating with Potter without the trade of being fed made him all the more dangerous. All the more tempting. But there Potter sat without an ounce of shame, shifting my centre of gravity once again by saying he wanted to make it a regular appointment. Saying, in effect, that he wanted me — no matter the cost.
> 
> He was still naked on the sofa, relaxed and far too appealing, his cock wet and satiated against his thighs. I shivered looking at him, and his eyes narrowed. He held out a hand and muttered, “ _Reparo_ ,” and the missing buttons from my shirt came flying up, threading into their proper places and slipping into their buttonholes. The tear near my collar mended with a whisper and the material of my shirt warmed all over. I shivered again at the blanket of heat around me.
> 
> “Thanks,” I croaked. 
> 
> “You looked cold.”
> 
> “I’m a vampire, Potter,” I said. “I’m always cold.”
> 
> Potter looked at me for a long moment. 
> 
> “Not always,” he murmured.
> 
> Pansy, I decided, would have to get over it.


	2. Rent to Buy

“You’re looking really good. Better.”

Harry glances up, alerted by Ron’s cautious tone. He picks at the label of his beer, resolutely not meeting Harry’s eyes. 

“What do you mean, better? If I get any better looking, I’ll ‘blind the young wizards and witches of London,’ remember?”

“So says the _Prophet._ ” Ron snickers. “But it’s not what I meant. Although I did see the same thing written on the side of a stall at the Leaky the other night.”

“God. Tell me you got rid of it.”

“Nah, I charmed a picture of a tiny cock below it and wrote ‘actual size,’” Ron says, face easing into a grin. “Keep ‘em guessing, right?”

Harry shrugs, but his smile plays tight with his mouth. He waits for it. _Has_ been waiting for it, for well over a month. 

Much to his surprise, Ron and Hermione have kept mum on the subject of Malfoy since the night at the pub, even when Harry mentioned seeing him regularly. It’s some sort of weirdly coordinated couple’s effort to ensure Harry cracks first. He’s never been great at keeping secrets from them and they both know it, but this feels different for some reason. He can only guess their opinions at this point.

“S’nothing,” Ron mumbles. “Just— you said you’d tell us when—” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, then meets Harry’s eyes. “Hermione said you’ve got another Portkey tomorrow.”

“Oh! Yeah.” Harry takes a swig of his beer, feeling bad. Ron and Hermione always offer to go should he need help, but cursebreaking is dangerous, and — strong as they are — they’re simply not equipped for the sorts of curses Harry takes on. And now with Hermione expecting… “Should be another quick trip, though. I’ll be back in a flash.”

“Really?” Ron asks. He coughs. “Things are... going well with Malfoy, then? You’re still…?”

“Jesus.” 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Harry sighs, kicking up a foot and resting it on a pile of folders from Mungo’s on Ron’s coffee table to buy some time. He doesn’t quite know what to say. _I’m having the best sex of my life and I don’t want it to end, but I do have to **pay Malfoy** for it_ probably won’t go over very well. Neither will _I know I should be looking elsewhere for someone more appropriate but I can't take my fucking hands off him and why the hell can't it be him, anyway?_

Because the fact is, Harry needs to Bond with a vampire to keep going. Each death curse he breaks takes more out of him, and each time one injures him, it takes longer to heal. Bonding with someone for which death is a way of life is the only way to mitigate that.

He considers seeing how Ron will respond if he changes the subject, just to be ornery. But to Ron’s credit, he’d hardly cringed while saying Malfoy’s name. Harry knocks Ron’s knee with his own to acknowledge it. 

“Yeah, we’re still. It’s… good,” he says, more than a little bewildered to realise how true that is. Or, how mostly true. 

Because there are other things he _can’t_ say, just because they feel oddly private. Like how much he enjoys Malfoy beyond the shagging and how it’s sort of fun to argue with him now. Like how once Malfoy heard his stomach rumbling post-sex and stalked naked to the kitchen to slap together a sandwich for Harry to eat in bed (then added an additional ten Galleons to his fee at the end of the night for cooking) before making Harry come again by sucking just the head of his cock.

How sometimes he kisses Harry goodbye — and often with a gleam in his eye that makes Harry want him all over again.

It was never supposed to… _feel_ like this, so Harry can’t even understand what he _is_ feeling. Sometimes he wishes he’d just fucking advertised.

“Really?” Ron gives him a dubious look and Harry smiles, tipping his beer up for another sip.

“Yeah. He’s okay.” 

Ron glances at him like he’s got some choice comebacks for that, but wisely says nothing.

“Yeah?” Ron’s chest expands under his faded Cannons t-shirt and holds. His gaze is serious and assessing as it roves over Harry’s neck for marks, then settles on his face. “But you haven’t— He hasn’t—”

“No,” Harry says. “Not exactly sure how to bring it up.”

“You think he won’t?”

“There doesn’t actually seem like a lot he won’t do,” Harry murmurs, arousal pooling in his stomach. He glances up to see Ron staring at him with a revolted expression caught on his face, and Harry realises he’s smiling. 

“So then you guys are actually, uh. Well, that’s good.”

Harry coughs out the mouthful of beer he’d been about to swallow. Sputtering and running a drying charm over his shirt, he manages, “That’s _good?_ I mean, I know why I think so, but why do _you?_ ”

Ron flushes. “Bill said that when a human and vampire are,” his voice lowers to a slurred mumble, cheeks going redder at whatever euphemism he’s picked, “it’s easier for a bond to form.”

Amused at Ron’s bashfulness, it takes Harry a second to process the implications of what he’s just said. He sits up, alarmed. “You told Bill that I was doing this?”

“Hey, no!” Ron holds up his hands, glancing worriedly at his windows as they start to rattle. “Wandless here. I didn’t say anything, calm the fuck down, Harry.”

Harry catches his breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. It took over a year after the final battle for him to rein in the wildly uncontrolled magic pulsing through his body, too long untamed by a master. Molly had been beside herself and Harry had sworn to himself that he’d never make her worry like that again; he’d learnt to control it as much for the people he loves as out of necessity. But he still doesn’t like it more often than not, prone to surging when he’s not careful and flooding his system with perilous amounts of adrenaline, especially in the last couple of years. 

Steadier, he focuses and calls it back deliberately, trembling as it quiets and settles inside him. Ron nods after a second, still watching him. He pats his shoulder and sighs.

“I was just asking Bill in general,” he says, like Harry didn’t just lapse in a way he hasn’t in a while. He swallows the dregs of beer from his bottle and Summons two more, twisting the cap off Harry’s and passing it over. 

“Thanks,” Harry says hoarsely. He rolls the cold sweat of the bottle against his hot cheek before taking a sip. “Sorry. What did Bill say?”

“Just… that,” Ron says. “Vampire lore is still pretty fragmented, you know that.”

“Yeah. Malfoy doesn’t really talk about…” Vaguely ashamed, Harry lets his voice peter out. It’s not as if he’s actually asked.

“Right. They don’t, Bill thinks, not with people they’re not Bonded to or one of their own kind. It makes sense, I guess,” Ron says with a thoughtful little frown, “given they were only taken off the Dark Creatures list about two hundred years ago. Before that, it was considered sport to hunt them.”

Harry takes a deeper swallow, unsettled by the thought of Malfoy being hunted.

“They’re protected, now, but—” Ron stops abruptly. “Is that why Malfoy...?”

“No,” Harry says, shaken. “I mean, I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll tell you later,” Ron says, still frowning. He tilts Harry a curious look. “Bill said love can be a major component.”

Harry closes his eyes. Fucking love, at the root of goddamned everything. 

“No,” he says, in answer to Ron’s unspoken question. “It’s Malfoy. It’s _me_ and Malfoy.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Ron says. But he doesn’t look reassured, the way Harry thought he might. “I mean, you guys don’t _have_ to— Frankly, I have a hard enough time wrapping my head around the idea of you, uh, _being_ with him in that way, so I think it’ll be fine if you don’t—”

“Let’s just drop it, okay?” Harry glances at the clock; it’s just past seven and the sun is only just starting to go down. He wonders a little bleakly what Malfoy’s doing, then shakes the thought away and gives Ron a smile. “I’m leaving early tomorrow and would rather just listen to the game for a bit, maybe steal some dinner from you guys when Hermione gets back with the takeaway.”

Ron’s brow flickers, but he smiles back. He leans forward to snap on the wireless and settles more comfortably on his sofa, shoving at Harry’s foot on the folders with his own.

“She’ll have kittens if she sees you doing that,” Ron says with a snort.

***

They’ve settled on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Malfoy insisted on an extra hundred for the weekend — “That’s the busiest night at the club, Potter.” — but didn’t put up a fight. Frankly, Harry could see no better use for his gold since Ron and Hermione won’t take it and Andromeda continues to insist Teddy is more than happy in their three-bedroom house in Manningtree. 

Seeing the heavy purse waiting for him on the kitchen table at their first scheduled appointment makes Malfoy poker up a bit, get frustratingly professional. So Harry goads him by edging him for over two hours, tongue rough and careless against Malfoy’s pucker and over his cock until Malfoy yowls out that he wouldn’t work for a dickhead who won’t let him get off. It’s better afterward, that uncomfortable new tension dwindling into something that feels more like them. Harry likes it more when Malfoy doesn’t try to rein in his tongue, when they argue and tussle a bit, and he thinks Malfoy likes it better too. 

It doesn’t take long for Harry’s body to start taking the new routine for granted, and he Portkeys home from wherever he is to spend the selected evenings fucking Malfoy boneless in various positions. Maybe that’s the cause of his confusion, his inability to talk about it with Ron: that he’s spent so much time _working_ , he forgot to have _fun._

Whatever the case, it’s not until he spends near a whole day unravelling a curse that Harry realises he’s let whatever he and Malfoy have got going to become less about making a decision than everything else. Malfoy is as decent a choice to bond with as anyone; better than most, considering their chemistry. Still, that’s no excuse for letting himself _think_ about Malfoy when he’s on a case, when he’s stuck in Siberia or Brazil. 

It’s no excuse for missing him. 

But Harry does, and he’s maddened when a suppression curse composed of countless smaller curses goes off ninety percent through his disabling of it, forcing him to miss two appointments in a row. When he’s finally released, he Owls Malfoy before downing numerous pain potions to steady himself, then rests on the sofa to wait.

He wakes up from a kick to the leg.

“Wake up. Potter.”

“Mmmff.” Harry rolls onto his back, hand splayed over his bare stomach absently sliding down to stroke his prick. He’s gone half hard, erection poking out through the placket of his boxers, but his chest hurts and his lungs feel tight when he breathes. He opens his eyes to see Malfoy solidify before him. 

“I took a couple potions, sorry.” Harry lifts his head and the spinning of the room slows a little, much to his relief. “You came.”

Malfoy studies him for a long moment, then quietly disrobes and straddles him, fingers running up the long, scabbing cut on Harry’s left arm. He probes it gently, breath held.

“Not yet, but I think you might be too high to get me there. Otherwise you would have covered this,” Draco says with a tap to his arm, grinding down on him. “What happened here?”

“I thought about you,” Harry says, because he had, and it had been distracting. Malfoy pauses, poking his arm harder. Harry instinctively smacks his thigh, then frowns. “Oh. Work.”

“Are you sure? Because if you’re paying someone else to injure you, I’ll have you know that’s one of the few things I’m willing to do for free.”

“I’m just lying here!”

“It’s rude to cancel without telling someone. Do it again and I’ll drop you,” Malfoy says, sounding annoyed. “I could have taken another client and you robbed me of the—”

Harry slides his hands up to pinch Draco’s hips. “I can see your fangs,” he says. He pulls Malfoy down against him and says, “Do you want to bite me, or are you just turned on?”

“You’re bleeding, so yes.” Malfoy swallows. “And yes.”

Harry looks at him, heart an unsteady thump in his throat. “What if I said you could?”

“I’d say you’re high. And twisted,” Malfoy murmurs, Summoning his wand to run it over Harry’s wound. He frowns when the knitting of skin doesn’t fully take, one brow coming down as he inspects Harry’s face carefully. “Think it’s funny to taunt me, Potter?”

“A little,” Harry admits. He hesitates. “But what if I was serious?”

Malfoy goes still on top of him. “I’d still say ‘you’re twisted,’ but then I’d add ‘you’re stupid,’ to the mix, because asking me for something like that when you’re not in your right mind really is, and also it’s been awhile since I’ve said it,” he says, pulling away. His lips part as he inhales through his mouth. His fangs are sculpted to fine points, sharp as jagged crystal. 

Harry shakes his head. “I just couldn’t let you, before.”

“You shouldn’t now,” Malfoy says. He covers Harry’s mouth with one hand. “Potter, stop.”

Harry closes his mouth, lips moving in a kiss against the coolness of Malfoy’s palm. Malfoy jerks away, expression so shocked Harry feels a flicker of embarrassment sneak beneath the floatiness the potions have favoured him with.

“You can, though.” He jostles Malfoy atop him and lifts his hips, cock pressing against the firm curve of his backside. The potions haven’t taken away all the pain in his arm, and he’s tired of everything being a transaction between them, tired of looking for that ambiguous ‘right time’ to ask. 

Malfoy’s tongue flutters lightly against his lower lip, like he can already taste him. His cock throbs, leaving a shining track of precome over Harry’s stomach. 

Harry tightens his fingers on Malfoy’s hips and Malfoy starts, shaking his head.

“Can what? Call you stupid?” Malfoy snorts. “Believe me, I do, to anyone who will listen.”

“Malfoy.”

“No.” 

Harry blinks. “Just… No?”

“Just no.” Malfoy looks at him steadily, throat working. “You’re doped up — and ridiculous, might I add — and it pains me to have to remind you that we already agreed on the parameters of our association; they were fairly simple. That was one of them. No.”

“But I want you to,” Harry says, suddenly exhausted and feeling quite sorry for himself. 

Malfoy barks out an incredulous laugh, face cross. He starts to rise and Harry hastily winds an arm around his waist, struggling to sit upright. 

“Alright, no.”

 _No._ It pounds in his ears to the heavy drum of his heart, disappointment curdling in his stomach. It’s most definitely not the answer he expected. But Malfoy looks as though he’s ready to get up and walk out without a backwards glance if he keeps pushing, so Harry reaches up and bites his narrow chin. 

“Parametres and money,” Harry says. “Sex.”

“For fuck’s sake, what did you take?” Malfoy murmurs, seemingly to himself, but why would he not want an answer? Harry opens his mouth to give him one, but Malfoy’s hand covers it again. He resumes rocking over Harry, still clearly sceptical about the idea of staying. Harry slowly lies back down.

“I don’t even want you to bite me,” Harry says when Malfoy removes his hand. 

Malfoy casts him a smile, annoyingly amused. “Then that must’ve been the legendary humour you mentioned.” 

“I just want you to suck me.”

“Fuck,” Malfoy says, rolling his eyes. “You’re sick.”

“For wanting a blowjob?” 

Malfoy scoffs, but his cock is fully roused, rubbing tantalisingly over Harry’s stomach. The resentful suspicion fades from his face and he grips Harry’s jaw between his forefinger and thumb and says,“You’re _sick_. Whatever you did to yourself has got infected; it’s burning through your system. You need a Healer.”

“No, I don’t,” Harry says. He promptly breaks into a hoarse, gurgling cough, scowling upward when Malfoy snickers. But this time he lets Malfoy climb off him, relenting at the promise of a shower, though all he has the energy to do is press Malfoy’s chest against the tiles and fuck slick between his trembling thighs. 

Harry’s own erection wilting after Malfoy comes hot in his hand, Malfoy exasperatedly climbs out of the shower and fetches more potions from Harry’s cabinet, for inflammation and infection. He leads Harry over to the bed and casts another failed Healing charm, silently bewildered when the skin won’t simply stitch up for him, and forces the tonics down Harry’s throat. 

 

“I’m going to regret this. These don’t mix. You shouldn’t talk.”

“I regret a lot of things,” Harry says. Malfoy opens a tube of Murtlap; Harry cringes at the smell but Malfoy’s face clears a little bit. “Why don’t we talk more? We should talk.”

“Most clients like to talk,” Malfoy mutters, looking relieved as he daubs overwhelmingly _pungent_ essence of Murtlap over Harry’s arm. “Fine, go ahead. It doesn’t matter to me what you say.”

Frowning, Harry says, “I’m supposed to believe I’m ‘most clients’ to you?”

“Of course not. I don’t like you nearly as much,” Malfoy says with a small snort. Harry relaxes.

“Did you ever get to go to America?”

“Why would I have wanted to do that?” Malfoy asks. He opens the meditape packaging with his teeth and slowly peels the charmed strip of gauze away. Holding his breath, he positions it over Harry’s cut, fingers delicate as they smooth the sticky edges against Harry’s skin. 

“Thanks,” Harry says, flexing his arm with only a small wince. “Travel. I dunno. It’s fun.”

“I’ve travelled enough.” Malfoy slips over him, settling under the covers in the empty space next to Harry, sat up against the headboard. He curiously picks up one of Harry’s spy novels from the bedside stand and reads the back. His hair is still damp, water pulling out the deeper gold tones in the colour. It’s curling slightly at the nape as it dries. 

As if he senses Harry still looking at him, he glances up. “Is that where you disappear to whenever you...?”

“Yeah. Canada and South America, too.” Harry yawns, strangely contented. “Africa sometimes. Russia. Magic feels different everywhere you go. Interesting.”

“I’m happy with my own, thanks.” Malfoy hesitates. “There’s a lot of conjecture about why you don’t come back very often.”

“Work. S’work. Cursebreaking,” Harry says, running a hand over Malfoy’s bare thigh. They actually do talk sometimes, before and after sex, and he wonders how he could have forgotten that. But they usually keep things general when they’re too tired to snark: Quidditch, food, the cinema. “I come back whenever I can.”

Malfoy looks like he doesn’t know whether to hex his own ears shut or probe for more information. 

“You're a Cursebreaker?” he finally asks, sounding careful. 

“Yeah. I had a…” Harry shrugs. “A natural affinity. I'd got some practice, right? So I started taking jobs and found I was really good at it.” He sighs. “It was sort of fun, you know? And then I found it helped.” 

“How very… you,” Malfoy says. “Saviour of all those in need.” 

A sudden burn pitches in Harry’s stomach, sharpening the world around him. _Ask him._

Malfoy opens the book and the thought disappears.

“You’d like it, I think. America.” Harry yawns again, eyelids heavy. He lets them drift shut and a sudden vision dances behind them of walking down the exuberance of Times Square, holding Malfoy’s hand. “There’s a lot to do. Cursebreaking aside.” 

Malfoy’s silent. Harry opens his eyes to find his gaze on him. He tuts softly and opens up the book again.

“You’re like a walking travel brochure,” he says. “I’ll scout around for a black-market international Portkey right away. ”

“You’re funny.” Harry squeezes his thigh, appreciation flooding him.

“Saying that without a hint of a laugh generally implies you don’t think so.” Malfoy smirks. “I’ll have you know people think I have a good sense of humour.”

“‘Your mum tell you that?” Harry says. 

Malfoy looks tempted to hit him with the book. “ _Also_ not a good way to convince me.”

A raspy sort of laugh breaks free from Harry’s throat. They’re near a foot apart but he can feel great waves of his own fever rolling between them, and he slides his hand up, seeking Malfoy’s chill and moulding his palm to the curve of his ribcage. 

“Where would you go, if you could?”

“Is this an interview?” Malfoy says defensively. “Are you writing an article on Death Eaters I don’t know about?” 

“Maybe just former ones with interesting stories,” Harry says. “Where?”

“An island,” Malfoy snaps, looking fed up. “An island to myself where I didn’t have to listen to constant, intrusive chatter as a part of my job.”

“That’s not exactly what I pay you for.” Harry’s cock twitches and he grins when Malfoy looks piqued. “An island, huh?”

“It’s one of the things they all pay for. Like I said,” Malfoy says. Harry’s cheer fades and Malfoy sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know where I’d go. Somewhere warm. Vampires actually feel as cold as we get, you know. It’s irrelevant, anyway.”

“I was just curious,” Harry says apologetically. Then, because it seems pertinent: “You were the one who insisted on extra potions.”

Malfoy huffs so Harry moves on, no longer able to stifle his interest. “Where does she live?” he asks. “Your mum, I mean.”

“Thanks for the clarification. I'd assumed you meant Pansy.” 

"Her too,” Harry says, shrugging. “Just… Anyone who--”

“Who what?”

“Loves you,” Harry says. The rigidity of Malfoy’s shoulders suddenly vanishes with a small, tired slump.

“They're around. I see them.”

“I heard your mum moved.” 

“She did; she had to. She was banished from… Except for visits here and to see my father, who’s...” He trails off but doesn’t really need to finish anyway. Harry already knows the circumstances of her sentence.

“Yeah,” he says. “And you couldn’t, because—”

“Right,” Malfoy cuts him off, increasingly flustered, though Harry can’t put his finger on why. The details of _his_ sentence are a secret to no one: a permanent trace on his magic through his Mark and the inability to ever travel further than Scotland. 

“And Parkinson?”

“I see her,” Malfoy says, more curtly. “As you well know.” 

“And anyone else?” Harry draws in a deep breath, holding it. “Vampires can bond, can’t they?”

“You think I’d be doing this if I’d bonded to someone?” Malfoy asks, mouth quirking. “Besides, I’m…” He trails off with a grimace, shaking his head.

 _What are you?_

Malfoy’s hand rests momentarily on Harry’s brow. “Now shut up and go to sleep.” 

The desire to know more while Malfoy seems friendly enough to offer so much information wars briefly with the promise of sleep, but Harry opens his mouth to argue and another yawn comes out instead. He drifts off to the rasp of pages turning.

***

Harry wakes up at the shift of the mattress beside him. He opens his eyes and takes a diagnostic: his fever is down if not gone, his arm no longer aches down to the bone, and Malfoy’s long form is scooting toward the edge of the bed.

Harry reaches out and grips his elbow. Malfoy jumps a little, half-turning. His voice is low.

“I thought you were asleep,” he says. “I was about to go.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. “I was a little…”

Malfoy shakes his head. “You paid for my time, I gave you my time.”

“Right,” Harry says, brushing the sleep out of his eyes. He forces himself to meet Malfoy’s gaze, but Malfoy’s expression is mild and he seems more cautious than angry. “Money.”

“What I’m here for, Potter.”

“But—” Harry swallows, trying to compose the question. “You bite others. Was it because of the potions that you said no?”

Malfoy stiffens and glares at him. “I told you why downstairs.”

“How is shagging me any different?” Harry asks. Malfoy scoffs.

“A cursebreaker who knows nothing about vampires,” he says. “Colour me shocked. Well, I would be if I didn’t remember your deplorable study habits.”

Harry pulls him back into the bed gently. “I know more about them than you might think.”

“Fetishists often do,” Malfoy says with a snobby lift to his chin that Harry’s become rather fond of. He tucks the feeling away automatically; Malfoy’s already skittish enough. 

“A fetishist would _demand_ you bite them,” he said, feeling a smile creep over his face. “I’m just a… hobbyist.”

Malfoy looks at him, obviously fighting a return grin. “A connoisseur.”

“An enthusiast.” Harry chuckles, rubbing Malfoy’s lower lip with his finger. “A groupie?”

“I’m fairly sure that’s what you have, not what you are,” Malfoy shoots back. Harry rubs over the soft hairs on Malfoy’s calf with his toes, something achingly warm and confusing unfurling inside him.

He... _likes_ Malfoy. Far too much. Likes the proud, regal way he carries himself, likes his biting humour, likes the way he can turn soft and gasping in his arms. It could be a foundation to something more without the money and Harry’s ulterior motives between them and the revelation of that rocks the core of who Harry always thought himself to be. 

 

“Not fair,” he says when he gathers himself. His glasses are still on the bathroom counter but Malfoy is clear and lovely right next to him, pale as clotted cream, the dark grey band around his smoky irises deepening as his pupils expand.

“If it’s not wrong, how is it unfair?” Malfoy murmurs.

“Some things just are, I guess.” Harry looks at his mouth, at the lengthening of his fangs under the slender line of his upper lip. “Hungry for something, Malfoy? Or are you just turned on again?” 

Malfoy flicks his tongue out over his fangs, pulling his lip back ruefully. “It’s as bad as falling asleep in the Common Room fourth year sometimes, honestly, only to wake up without a handy blanket to put over your lap.” He leers a little. “Infer what you will from that.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Despite what the general public has done to your ego, you actually aren’t the solution to everything,” Malfoy says, remarkably breathless for someone who likes oxygen more than requires it.

“How do you know? I could be. Maybe you could be, too.” Swallowing hard, Harry Summons his wand, touching the tip to his neck right above his collarbone. “Here?” He drags it lower and off to the side. “Or here?”

Malfoy’s face goes slack. He grabs Harry’s wrist and wrenches his hand away. “ _No._ ”

He’d meant it as a way to gauge but at Malfoy’s reaction, something hard-tinged with anger swells in Harry’s gut, erasing the gentle warmth lingering there. He leans over Malfoy, pressing him deeper into the mattress, wand now wedged against his sternum as their bodies slide together. 

“I feel what happens whenever I push my cock into you so hard you tear up my back, Malfoy,” he says softly. “I see how it drives you mad, the smell of my blood. You want it, don’t you?”

“Stop.” Malfoy turns his face to the side, quickly-plumping cock twitching against Harry’s thigh. 

“I don’t think I will.” Harry nips him on the shoulder resentfully, then moves lower to lap over one tight pink nipple, swirling his tongue over the bud. “I want to fuck you.” 

Malfoy shoves a hand between them, eyes stormy. But his push against Harry is feeble and Harry rolls his hips, erection throbbing against Malfoy’s pubic bone. 

“You can still smell it, can’t you?”

“I’m not biting you,” Malfoy says hoarsely, fingers tightening against the pulse in Harry’s wrist. He looks at his hand, licking his lips and unconsciously mimicking Harry’s slow grind.

“There, huh?” Gratified, Harry kisses him, tongue sliding slick over Malfoy’s lower lip before pushing his mouth open to slip over his fangs. Malfoy’s cockhead feels wet against him. He wrenches his mouth away, panting. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to,” Harry says. He flips his wand to his opposite hand and points it just below the press of Malfoy’s fingers. “I can do it myself.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” Malfoy growls, twisting Harry’s other wrist so hard that his wand falls from his grip. But Harry doesn’t actually need it, fascination unspooling in him at Malfoy’s bare panic. He draws upon an infinitesimal section of all the flaring, excitable components of his magic and murmurs, _“Diffindo”_ under his breath, gaze on the vivid branching of his veins. He watches as a tiny, measured slash in his skin forms. It doesn’t even hurt. 

Malfoy sucks in a hard breath at the the drip of bright red arterial blood flowing down the length of Harry’s inner forearm. He smears a fingertip up through it, to the split in Harry’s wrist. He touches the cut and it seals. Without his wand — without a word.

Harry looks at him silently. 

“Never do that to me again,” Malfoy says in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. He looks down at the satiny stain of blood on his fingers as if hypnotised. Rubs it with his thumb.

“You want to fuck me while I taste you?” he grinds out. “Fuck me, then.”

Malfoy stuffs his fingers in his mouth, eyes closing, an insensible moan tearing from his throat. Harry’s vision mists, blood rushing elsewhere as Malfoy’s cock jerks and he comes and _comes_ against Harry’s thigh. Harry reaches to grasp his pulsing prick disbelievingly, spunk spilling into his palm, and he’s barely aware of swiping it over his own erection until he hears himself respond with an answering growl. He grabs at Malfoy’s hips to flip him, hands sturdy on his hips, cock pushing high and hard up Malfoy’s arse. He hears the sound of damp sucking, Malfoy’s fingers still between his lips, and Malfoy pushes against Harry’s cock with a frantic, backward thrust, so Harry slams into him harder, the world narrowing to the lock of their two bodies and the roar of rushing blood in Harry’s ears.

~*~

> I’m not a modest person. I’m a talented wizard as such things go, generations of genetics lending to my magical strength, years of attentive study and training lending to my skill. The vampire who made me praised the way I tasted, in fact. But Potter, when he opened up a vein for me... His blood was rich, _intoxicating_ , heavy with notes of the most powerful elemental magic I’d ever encountered. It was the first time the _Master of Death_ title that followed him in around in furtive whispers made any sense to me. I hated him in that moment more intensely than I ever did growing up — and wanted him in equal measure, for dangling himself before me in such a way. I’d never mastered wandless or wordless, but that night it came easy to me, sealing up his little self-inflicted taunt of a wound. 
> 
> I woke up in Potter’s bed after, the sun long having since come up. The smell of Potter’s come was on me and in me and all around me, mixed with my own, and I didn’t know what it meant that I was soothed by it until I realised that the scent of Potter’s blood had faded. With it, the frightening hunger in my throat, the ache in my gums, had disappeared too. I could hear Potter’s steady heartbeat next to me and decided to be relieved; I’d got away with not committing accidental homicide.
> 
> And there was something else: Potter’s hand was around my soft cock. He was rubbing over the slit with a lazy thumb.
> 
> Once I deemed it safe, I opened my eyes to find Potter staring at me with a small smile tugging at his lips. He had a series of mottled bruises and scrapes decorating his chest.
> 
> “Why wouldn’t you bite me?” he asked again. His fever had vanished entirely and his warmth was normal human warmth, albeit a little hotter than they generally run; magical power can do that to a wizard. “You know I’d pay you. You implied it was supposed to be—”
> 
> “It is,” I groaned, irritably batting at Potter’s hand. He slipped it down to fit between my sticky thighs with far too much familiarity. “It’s all those things and more, for humans.”
> 
> Many more, I’d been told, with the right ones. For vampires too. It had sounded like a promise at the time but in that moment felt more like a warning, a craving for Potter lurking on the back of my tongue, his skin still warming my own. 
> 
> “Then why?” Potter pestered. “You liked it.”
> 
> I forced myself to concentrate. Memories washed over me of Potter sucking on my tongue, of Potter looking up at me with blown pupils, and a feeling of abandon started to edge in. I pushed it away. 
> 
> We looked at each other, the room quiet around us. I hated that it could be so easy with him, that we could lie next to one another in his huge bed with only our knees touching and the rest of the world still seemed to dissolve away. The potions had worked and once the scent of illness had eased, he just smelled… lovely. My heart twisted in a way that reminded me of how it felt in its death throes.
> 
> “I’ve got to go.”
> 
> “Malfoy,” Potter said softly, sounding regretful. 
> 
> “More the special experience you were looking for?” I asked, arranging my face in a sneer.
> 
> “Not exactly.” Potter sat up, touching my hip. “Wait, c’mon. It’s daylight.”
> 
> “What with all your extensive knowledge of us, you should be aware that’s a myth too,” I said. I was twitchy, nervous, and could still access the flavour of Potter on my tongue when I thought about it. “We can withstand a certain amount of sunlight, especially with the right potions. Anyway, I can Apparate to my flat.”
> 
> “Potions like Wolfsbane?” 
> 
> I eyed him. “Yes.”
> 
> He looked relieved for some reason. He ran a hand down my side with a sigh. “What else can vampires do?”
> 
> “Oh, lots,” I said, shifting away. Though his fever had gone, his touch still burned. “We have faster reflexes and heightened senses, we can fly unaided and hypnotise others with barely a glance, and we’re all bat Animagi. Plus, we’re immortal. You didn’t know?”
> 
> Potter snorted. “Arsehole.”
> 
> “Well, the first two are true.” 
> 
> “And the immortality?” Potter asked, voice going tight and funny. 
> 
> “We age differently,” I said grudgingly, uncomfortable. Vampiric longevity was one of the only reasons I’d hesitated about becoming one. Why on earth would I want to extend the reputation I’d acquired, or the misfortune that followed me due to it? And his sudden interest in me didn’t escape my notice either, no matter how subtle he thought he was being. “Our lifespan is generally… longer.”
> 
> Potter ran his fingers through his hair, looking unhappy. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d heard that.” 
> 
> When he looked back up, his gaze was shuttered. “Did you… Did someone make you?”
> 
> “Well, of course. Someone had to. You don’t just randomly get in touch with your vampire genetics; we’re not Veelas, for Circe’s sake.” 
> 
> Potter shook his head, a wry smile pursing his lips. 
> 
> “I just meant… Was it something you chose?”
> 
> “Oh.” I hesitated, not liking the direction of his questions. “Yes. I chose it. You have to.” I took the opportunity Potter’s silence afforded me to change the subject. “Owl me and let me know if you have plans to do something like that again, so I can be sure to cancel our arrangement.”
> 
> Potter looked away, the line of his jaw gone hard. “Then you really mean it. You won’t bite me.”
> 
> I had to swallow twice at the mere thought of doing so. “Yes.”
> 
> “No matter what?”
> 
> What reason or amount of gold could he possibly give me, I wondered, that would overrule my own sense of self-preservation? 
> 
> “No matter.”
> 
> “I won’t do it again,” Potter said. He plumped his pillow with a few aggressive thwacks and lay back down, rolling over and facing away. “I’ll pay extra if you stay. I don’t like being alone when I’m sick.”
> 
> Insult warring with shock, I stared at him. Potter’s request, no matter how badly handled, was really nothing more than a capitulation. I curled my hand around Potter’s shoulder. “I’m not a Healer or anything.”
> 
> “I don’t know what you are,” Potter murmured, sounding tired. “Stay anyway.”
> 
> I don’t know how long I did. Until nightfall, I remember that much. I remember that I slept a little. But Potter was drowsy and hot next to me; minutes, hours, slipped past without my notice, until I had to go.
> 
> I remember that he woke up again when I got out of bed and dressed, and that every single item of clothing I had seemed to take forever to put on when he cracked one sleepy, green eye open and trained it on me, wordlessly watching as I covered myself.
> 
> But then, time can be an impossible thing to measure, I’ve found, for certain tasks.

~*~

It’s become a problem, the way Harry sometimes forgets.

In the weeks since Malfoy made clear he wasn’t going to bite him, sometimes Harry allows himself to forget that he’s paying for it, that he should be looking for someone new. Malfoy’s refusal has relegated all of that to background static. Harry wants it now, but his desire for the bite is more about what it might do to the sex than a means to an end — which makes it impossible for him to think about what needs to be done during the swirling unreality that occurs when they’re together.

It’s little moments, usually: Malfoy slyly slipping his tongue along the crease of Harry’s thigh with a stifled laugh when Harry groans; a bruised look to his mouth when he allows Harry to keep kissing him for long minutes after they both come; soft, snowy hair against Harry’s cheek as Malfoy keens quietly in his ear. 

“Humans aren’t supposed to sleep during the day, you know,” Malfoy murmurs, dragging him into wakefulness before dawn. The pointy tip of his nose nudges Harry’s temple and he traces the shell of Harry’s ear with his tongue. “We’re allowed to corner the market on that one thing, aren’t we?”

“Maybe I’m not fully human,” Harry says roughly without opening his eyes. He smiles and runs his hands down the sleek contours of Malfoy’s back; it’s a good way to wake up, Malfoy gone more often than not when he does. “But even so, a lot of humans work at night. Are they just never supposed to sleep?”

“I guess not,” Malfoy says, sounding amused. He scrapes the stubble on Harry’s jaw with a single, lengthening fang, lightly enough that he doesn’t break the skin. He works his way down to lick Harry’s nipples damp, then rolls one between his finger and thumb and purses his lips around the other, sucking softly. Harry, caught beneath the press of Malfoy’s long body, can only rut with tiny, thwarted motions against Malfoy’s torso.

“Well, looking in a mirror is supposed to be something vampires _can’t_ do,” Harry says as Malfoy’s cock drags over his thigh, “and I’d wager you do that all the time.”

“Calling me pretty, Potter?” Malfoy’s words are muffled against Harry’s skin, but there’s laughter in his voice. “I’m touched.” He bites over Harry’s stomach with normal teeth and raises his head. Harry opens his eyes to see Malfoy looking up at him with a crooked little smile. “But as a matter of fact, you’re right. Every chance I get.”

Harry exerts some pressure with his knee against Malfoy’s hip. Malfoy rises, allowing himself to be rolled, thighs parting for Harry to fit himself between. Harry gives him a hard kiss in retribution for being woken up, then hooks two fingers into Malfoy’s open mouth. Malfoy’s brow furrows and he gazes at Harry for a beat before sucking on them, tongue sliding over and between to coat them with saliva. Harry shudders, pumping them in and out between Malfoy’s smirking lips. When he draws his fingers out, they glisten, and he wastes no time draping Malfoy’s thigh over one forearm so he can press them against Malfoy’s sphincter. 

Their last fuck was around one in the morning and as far as Harry knows, Malfoy never casts any spells on himself. But the fit of his pressing fingers is tight, Malfoy’s vampirism returning his body to untouched status with freakish regularity. Malfoy’s inner muscles clamp around his fingers, resisting the intrusion until Harry rubs over his rim with a firm, damp thumb and then Malfoy softens all at once; Harry’s fingers slide up and in, down to the base knuckle. He wiggles them.

Malfoy squirms a touch, voice pleasantly uneven. “Planning on doing something with those?”

Harry grins and nips at his lower lip. He watches Malfoy and works his fingers in and out, short quick thrusts of them, cock sliding against Malfoy’s inner thigh with thoughtless mimicry. Malfoy groans and turns his head to the side, the blush that only surfaces when he’s really turned on washing over his cheeks, and grasps his cock in a cool, firm hand, wanking himself with ruthless efficiency. 

“Want to come on me, Malfoy?” Harry asks, pressing his pelvis tight against Malfoy’s thigh and rocking against him. He twists his fingers, brushing them over Malfoy’s prostate. Startled, Malfoy jerks, a small whine escaping his throat. He pulls harder on his swollen prick, the flushed head protruding from the circle of his fist on every stroke.

“No, _uuh_ , no more than it seems you want to come on me,” Malfoy says, twitching his leg against Harry’s quickly rolling hips. Harry sweeps his fingertips over Malfoy’s prostate again, then teases it with steadily building pressure. Malfoy goes lax, eyelashes fluttering. 

“Merlin,” he says, “ _yes_ , Potter, that’s it.”

“I know,” Harry says, running his teeth over Malfoy’s collarbone. He licks the hollow of Malfoy's throat. His balls have gone tight and the lightly haired skin of Malfoy’s thigh, the taut muscle his prick is caught against, brings Harry perilously close to orgasm. But to his satisfaction, it's Malfoy who breaks first, gleaming strands of come splashing over his own heaving stomach. 

A cool drop or two hits Harry's chest as Malfoy cries out in a hoarse voice, jerking his cock rough and fast, and Harry can't stand it any longer, the open look of euphoria on Malfoy's face, the trembling of his body. He pushes his prick desperately against Malfoy, harder and faster, until he comes. His spunk slickens Malfoy's thigh and he closes his eyes and rides it out, helplessly plunging his fingers into Malfoy's convulsing arse. 

“Fuck,” Malfoy mutters after a minute. 

Harry looks up to see Malfoy's gaze trained on the bed hangings. He pulls his fingers out and climbs into a more comfortable position at Malfoy's side, collapsing against the pillows. 

“Yeah.” Harry pushes against Malfoy's shin with his toe, a little nugget of warmth glowing in his chest. “That was…”

“Gratis,” Malfoy says, slanting him a smile. Harry's own smile freezes. He looks away as Malfoy coolly adds, “Just this once.”

“I was going to say, ‘unexpected,’” Harry says when he looks back. “But sure. Thanks.” 

Malfoy shrugs and nods toward the drawn curtains. “I woke up hard and you were here.”

“Flattering,” Harry says. Malfoy snickers.

“You've got enough people to flatter you,” Malfoy says. 

And, well, he's not wrong. Harry lets it pass. They rest in silence for a bit until he feels that edginess emanating from Malfoy’s side of the bed. It usually indicates he’s about to leave.

“Do you ever miss going out during the day without having to think about it?”

Malfoy glances at him. “Wouldn’t you? What do you take me for?”

There are too many ways Harry can respond, so he lets that one pass too.

“Still,” Malfoy says with a sigh, rubbing idly over the streaks decorating his stomach, “there are compensations.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” Malfoy says after a pause, “I can write a tell-all memoir in a hundred and fifty years and you won’t be able to directly dispute anything I say about you.” He rolls to his side, gaze falling to the ugly welt lingering on Harry’s cheekbone that that refuses to heal for any spell. “Sooner, I suppose, if you keep taking hexes like _that_ whenever you go ‘cursebreaking.’”

“That’s something, I guess,” Harry says.

“I’m a very optimistic thinker, Potter. And I’ve always had a way with words.” Malfoy smirks, stretching. The line of his body arches, the curvature of every slender muscle flexing as he raises his arms over his head and extends his toes. 

He’s beautiful like this, ivory skin glowing like he’s lit from within by _Lumos_ , pointy chin rounding with his yawn, soft pink cock shifting as he moves. Harry doesn’t let himself think about it, merely slides a hand over Malfoy’s bony hip to the small of his back when he settles and pulls him closer. He kisses him lightly, deeper when Malfoy responds by opening his mouth and slipping his fingers into Harry’s hair after a moment. Malfoy’s fangs drop just a little and Harry strokes his tongue over their dulled edges, just for the pleasure of feeling Malfoy shudder in his arms. When Malfoy finally pulls away, it’s with a heavy-lidded gaze, but his mouth is twisted into a moue of disapproval. 

“Careful,” he murmurs throatily, “just because I comped the last one doesn’t mean I’m willing to extend the same charity twice.”

Harry restrains a flinch. Malfoy’s fingers tighten at his nape for a split second as Harry releases him, then let go. 

“It’s not as if I can’t afford your services, obviously,” Harry says, feeling petty. Malfoy can never just leave without the reminder. Malfoy’s little smirk disappears and he looks at Harry for a moment, face impassive.

“Not all of them, though,” he says, bored and bland. A blaze of wrath swells in Harry’s chest and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s got Malfoy’s wrists to the mattress above his head with one hand and is kneeing his thighs apart. 

“Then I should take advantage of the ones on offer, shouldn’t I?” Harry asks. Malfoy bucks against him as if to throw him off, but he’s wound a leg around Harry’s hip, and his foot presses against Harry’s arse. For some reason it makes Harry angrier, that Malfoy’s already hard again and leaking against his stomach, that he’s so willing, that the only time he’s not withholding is when Harry’s fucking him. That it’s the only time Harry can really let go, too.

He collects his scattered thoughts enough to conjure some lube and swipe it over his dick, then aims and pushes in. Malfoy’s arsehole contracts around him greedily, his wrists twisting in Harry’s clasp. He lifts his head and finds Harry’s mouth, groaning into their kiss as he raises his hips. Harry’s cock sinks in the last few inches, that strange addictive sensation of Malfoy’s cool inner walls gripping him tight and warming around him when he stills. Malfoy’s head falls back to the pillow, neck arching, face as furious as Harry feels.

“Do it then, Potter,” he says, eyes and fangs glinting. His foot presses harder against Harry’s arse, toes digging into his right cheek. “Show me what you want.”

 _Everything,_ Harry thinks, or perhaps says because Malfoy’s eyes widen before he raises his head to pull Harry into another punishing kiss. 

They fuck again, as hard as it was soft before, Harry’s balls smacking lewdly against Malfoy’s arse with every plunge in, Malfoy’s stiff cock sliding damp against Harry’s stomach as he mutters taunts in Harry’s ear: _You **always** get what you want, don’t you, Potter? Bet you used to think of sticking your cock up me and **taking** me when I couldn’t be had for a price, didn’t you?_ Harry grunts, releasing Malfoy’s wrists to hike Malfoy’s splayed leg up to rest on his shoulder, turning to skim his teeth over the slender arch of Malfoy’s foot. It flexes under his lips. 

“ _Fuck._ ” Malfoy’s moan is hoarse. His hands come up to buffer himself from slamming into the headboard, hips jerking to meet each frantic snap of Harry’s. 

Blank with sensation, Malfoy’s arsehole stretching and quivering around him, Harry folds his fingers around the solid length of Malfoy’s prick and starts pulling him off, twisting his fist over the head on each upstroke, swiping his thumb over Malfoy’s dribbling slit. It’s rough and graceless, but Malfoy moans again, face pink, and a surge of new pleasure surprises Harry; he cries out brokenly, instinct driving his hips to a stutter, the slap of his balls quieting as they tighten. Malfoy’s body trembles under him, tenses, and his hand covers Harry’s to guide it in a continued wank as Harry comes, ecstatic chills racing up his spine, cock spurting again and again in Malfoy’s slippery hole. 

Malfoy exhales noisily and follows, spunk spilling over their adjoined fingers and striping the creamy-gold curls at the base of his prick. That rare flush has bled down his cheeks to spread over his chest, darker than it’s ever been before. All four of Malfoy’s fangs have elongated and he blinks up at Harry, panting. His face is oddly stricken and it makes Harry’s cock pulse once more in him, lightly. He wants to have Malfoy again, wants to keep his gaze on Malfoy’s the whole time, wants to figure out where Malfoy goes when he closes off after sex like he’s doing now.

“The sun is going to come up soon, Potter,” Malfoy says gruffly at length, casting a significant glance to the closed curtains. “I have things to do.”

Right. It’s Thursday now. 

Harry swallows and pulls out, sitting back on his heels and letting Malfoy’s ankle slide off his shoulder. Malfoy pushes himself up and scoots back against the headboard, drawing his knees up near his chest, but makes no move to vacate the bed. They stare at each other.

“Going to charge me extra for that one?” Harry asks, a sour-burnt taste coating the back of his mouth.

A subtle knot hardens Malfoy’s jaw. “I have been considering raising my rates, lately. I’m fairly in demand.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Harry waits a beat, then twiddles his fingers, casting a quick cleaning charm over both of them for something to do. Malfoy’s brows climb, disheveled strands of silvery hair tumbling fetchingly over his forehead as he tilts his head. His gaze falls to Harry’s wand, still resting on the table by his bed, and for the first time Harry realises he’s never once paid any mind to how often he uses wandless in front of Malfoy in the months they’ve been seeing each other, a skill he usually guards from those not close to him. He holds his breath.

“I suppose I don’t need to use your shower, then,” is all Malfoy says, though, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and standing. He bends to grab his own wand on the floor and, after another lazy stretch, Summons his discarded clothing from the middle of Harry’s room and begins to dress. 

“I’ve got something planned for Saturday,” he says casually as he steps into his pants and tugs them up. 

Harry props his head in one hand, intrigued. “Oh really? Like what?”

Malfoy frowns, then suddenly chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint, Potter. I didn’t mean something for _you_. I’ve got an appointment, so I won’t be here. Merely letting you know. Though I can certainly think up ideas if you think I’m not doing my job well enough.” 

An appointment.

“No,” Harry says, falling back against his pillow. “I think you do it fine.”

“Now there’s a compliment,” Malfoy says, voice low. He finishes doing up his trousers and buttons his shirt, rolling up his sleeves and fixing them stylishly just below the crease of his elbow. He never bothers covering his Mark, much to Harry’s surprise. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to forget its existence, why it seems so faded when he remembers to look at it.

Malfoy tucks in his shirt and comes over to Harry’s side of the bed, his shoes in one hand. He crouches, trousers pulling tight to define the curve of his buttocks and his crotch. “I like to think I’m better than ‘fine’ on my worst day. Am I getting stagnant?”

“Nope,” Harry says, popping the ‘p.’ He yawns elaborately in Malfoy’s face. “You’re a consummate professional. Except for the double-booking, but I guess you got a better proposition.”

“Hm.” Malfoy takes the hit without a blink. He looks more confused than anything else. “My apologies, of course. Maybe I can discount you and come by after—”

“ _No._ ”

Malfoy draws back a bit, face startled at Harry’s tone — though not as startled as Harry is by the clawing in the pit of his stomach, by the way his hands are suddenly shaking. A couple of books topple off his shelf and when Malfoy looks over, Harry takes a few deep breaths. He clears his throat.

“I’m leaving town tomorrow. I was going to be back on Saturday, but I’ll just extend my trip; I’ve been missing too much work, anyway,” he lies. “Perfect timing.”

“Alright.” Malfoy sizes him up. “I’ll see you in a week, then.”

“Yeah.”

Malfoy brushes Harry’s fringe back, fingers and gaze pausing over his scar. He traces it lightly and Harry’s skin goes cool in the wake of Malfoy’s touch, his heart beating too fast. The haughty twist of Malfoy’s perpetual smirk softens and his eyes meet Harry’s for a split second before he pulls away and stands, fidgeting for a moment as if discomfited. 

Harry pushes up onto an elbow, mind wiped clean of response. Malfoy looks at the door and fumbles in his pockets, drawing out his payment for the night. He sets the purse on Harry’s nightstand. 

“For the inconvenience,” he says, smirk back in place. “I hate disappointing a decent client — even if it is you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Later, Scarhead,” Malfoy says. He walks out without a backward glance.


	3. Accumulating Interest

It’s not often Harry’s in London with time to kill, but he’s not exactly in top shape for another assignment yet. 

There’s not a lot to do, with Ron at the joke shop every day where Harry’s presence draws too much attention — even under a Glamour, the shop is too closely watched by the paps and someone inevitably figures out it’s him Ron’s hanging out with — and Hermione pulling long shifts at St. Mungo’s. So he fills his days completing long-ignored errands: meeting with his solicitor, getting another physical, writing donation drafts to charities. He spends some time teaching flying to Teddy, old enough now at six to seat a proper child’s broom, has tea with Luna, and goes to lunch and the cinema with Ginny. Dinners are spent at Ron and Hermione’s cosy little house and despite having _done_ this before, taken time off to spend with his friends, he feels oddly contented this time, no matter the countdown ticking off in the back of his head — right up until Hermione asks what his plans for Saturday are.

“Er.” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “I thought I’d hang about here with you guys. Andromeda’s got Teddy in some kind of weekend wizarding camp programme this summer.”

“I’m working a double-rotation tomorrow,” Hermione says, a little moue of disappointment on her face. “But maybe I can switch with—”

“No, no. Ron and I can figure out something,” Harry says, waving her off. Only Ron shifts, throwing him an apologetic glance. 

“Both of our assistants worked their last days this week,” he says, “so I’ve got interviews in the morning, and Saturday’s our biggest day; George’ll need me until closing. But you should come in. You haven’t been in the shop in an age and we have a new ‘adults only’ section; the stuff we’ve got going is wild.”

“Tempting.” Harry snorts. “But I’ll pass. Remember what happened the last time?”

Ron grimaces. “Yeah, it took us awhile to clean up the shop.”

“Keep the section in mind for my Christmas list, though,” Harry says, grinning. Ron laughs but the sound quickly fades, worry flickering over his face. Harry’s not made it home for the last three Christmases; the emotions that run rampant around the holidays feed into the more sinister Curses being created — also more common around the holidays. It hurts them that he likely won’t be home this year. He swallows. 

“I’ll just do some shopping or something. We’ll get together on Sunday.”

“So you’re not seeing Malfoy then?” Hermione asks, uncommonly tentative. 

“Not tomorrow,” Harry says, relieved when it comes out even. “He’s busy. We’ve got plans for Wednesday, though.”

Hermione looks reassured and lets the subject drop. But as he’s taking his leave later, she presses a little rectangular box into his hands from the depths of her enthusiastically green robes. 

“Here,” she says, voice soft. 

Harry jostles it curiously and hears the faint clink of glass. “What’s this?”

“Blood replenishment phials,” she says, blushing. She glances at Ron, who suddenly seems to find the moulding around his mantle incredibly fascinating. “Ron told me last month that you mentioned that you and Malfoy were definitely…” She clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. “Seeing each other romantically. And I know he hadn’t yet…”

She hesitates again. “But in case things have changed since then,” she says, a heartbreakingly fragile note in her voice, “or in case you think they will, I just wanted you to have these. And to know that I’m not bothered by Malfoy. If— If that’s the reason you’re waiting—”

Harry stops her with a touch on the wrist, unaccountably touched by her unquestioning support. “That’s not the reason. It’s just not… there, yet.”

“I only didn’t tell you about him because I never thought that you two would be able to get along well enough,” Hermione says with a sigh. “I just want you safe.”

“I know.” Harry leans down and kisses her cheek. Pulling back, he weighs the box in his hands and smiles. “I actually already have some of these, just in case. And I’d tell you both, too.”

“Well, these are Healer-grade,” Hermione says, accepting that with a nod. She gives him a swift hug. “Take them anyway.”

Harry does.

He’s listless the next day, puttering about the house with small chores: applying a double coat of polish to his brooms; organising his paperwork; dusting off Hedwig’s old cage, now filled with everblooming white roses. But he returns to the box of slender phials again and again, wondering how they taste, what it’d be like to need them. 

Wondering if he’ll get to use them with Malfoy. 

Nearing sunset, the quiet of his house gets oppressively loud. Harry charms his face different, grabs his autumn cloak, and Apparates to Diagon Alley with the thought that he may as well actually attempt to shop before he gives in and tries to sneak into the back of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes without being spotted. 

The streets are congested in the rapidly dwindling light — a breath of relief for Harry, who tends to get noticed amidst smaller crowds. He pops into a new apothecary to restock his medicinal potions, then heads into an off-license to buy a bottle of Felix Felicis-“inspired” Golden Goblin apricot liqueur before checking his watch. Wheezes only tends to slow down after eight, so Harry heads to the new bookstore a few shops down the street at number 99 to kill a few more minutes and slips in to peruse their Muggle section… and runs smack into Malfoy with Pansy Parkinson on his arm, almost knocking them against a high shelf of books.

“Potter!” Malfoy blurts with uncharacteristic indiscretion. He blinks, dismay on his face, and drags Parkinson back a step with him, glancing around to see if anyone heard. Fortunately, it seems no one has, so Harry follows, lowering his voice. 

“I thought you had an appointment.”

Malfoy glances at Parkinson quickly and then Harry understands: his appointment was with _her._

“I do,” Malfoy says, shoulders going stiff. His elbow comes in, rigid against his ribs, and Parkinson squirms her caught hand out of the crook.

“Oh.” The cutting blade of jealousy he’s been riding for days — with Malfoy in front of him, it seems stupid to keep denying that’s what it is — sharpens in Harry’s belly. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Malfoy asks, tone one notch away from turning into a hiss. “Are you actually—”

“I’m not stalking you,” Harry says, irritated. “I’m getting some new books. My spy novels,” he adds pointedly, “keep disappearing.”

“Muggle novels don’t belong in wizarding homes,” Malfoy says with a supercilious little sniff. But his mouth quirks and his eyes twinkle a little, tiny creases appearing around the corners of them. He cocks his head, adding with a bit of cheek, “Your house must have eaten them.”

Harry snorts. “Someone’s devouring them, all right.” 

Malfoy laughs softly, scratching his nose in a sheepish manner, and for a moment it’s just him and Harry, the way they are sometimes right after sex: tangled together, having a conversation about nothing in softly spoken voices. But then Parkinson pokes Malfoy in the ribs and he flinches, the tease in his gaze bleeding away. 

“I thought you were out of town,” he says. A muscle tics high up on his cheek. 

“And I didn’t know you guys were seeing each other,” Harry says, glancing once more at Parkinson, who steps close to Malfoy’s side again with a combative toss of her glossy hair. She’s in jet party robes that draw the eye and display her chest to advantage, ruffled skirt hitting her at the knee. Noticing that, Harry realises Malfoy’s dressed up as well, in matching semi-formal robes, the black offset by silver buttons that come all the way up in a high collar, and gleaming silver embroidery around his cuffs and neck. Fitted around his shoulders and chest, they flare slightly at the hip, stopping at mid-shin in a tight flow of expensively sheened material; beneath them, he’s wearing lead-grey trousers, and his shoes are polished to a high shine. He looks severe and tensely beautiful, pale hair swept back like when he was younger, gaze watchful on Harry’s face.

“We’re not advertising it yet,” Parkinson says, parroting Malfoy’s sniff from before, to draw his attention, “but we’re engaged to be married.”

The world tunnels precariously around Harry, seconds dripping slow as treacle until Malfoy jabs her with an elbow. 

“Quit it, Pansy, we are not.” 

Harry inhales, bewildered at the room’s temporary loss of oxygen as it comes rushing back. 

“Well, we could have been,” she snaps, scowling up at him and rubbing the spot where his elbow connected in what looks like a parody to the weird beginning of a women’s health video or perhaps a porno, tits jiggling as she vigorously massages the side of one with her whole hand. 

“And I’m sure that would have gone well,” he says dryly. “Give me two minutes. Go…” he flicks his fingers in a random direction, “over there.”

“You,” Parkinson says to Harry. “I don’t like you.”

“Really?” Harry asks. Thankfully, she’s stopped palpating her chest, so he’s no longer in danger of getting sucked into the depths of her cleavage. “Because you’ve hidden it so well all these years.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, rolling her eyes with a little huff. But she’s looking at the air between Harry and Malfoy and as she flounces off, Harry’s left with the impression she was speaking to both of them. 

“I came back early,” Harry says.

Malfoy nods stiffly. “We’re meeting my mother for dinner tonight.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned that?” Harry asks. He immediately feels like a right twat when Malfoy’s face goes blank; they’re not lovers in any real sense.

“It’s none of your business,” Malfoy says, a crisp echo to his thoughts. 

“Right. I know. My business with you is…”

“Precisely,” Malfoy murmurs, voice low. He glances over his shoulder. They’re alone in the aisle, but he still edges away. 

Harry follows, mostly because it’s habit now to scoop away all the space between them if Malfoy doesn’t do it first. Malfoy’s gaze darts back to him, skittish and bright. 

“Are you alright?” Harry inspects him, raising a hand to his cheek to investigate the flush slowly colouring his cheeks. Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobs above his collar. Harry skims his fingers against the blade of his cheekbone, surprised at the warmth emanating from his skin, and Malfoy licks his lips, eyes glittering as he drops his gaze to Harry’s mouth. 

“It’s a potion,” he says, tilting his head out of range of Harry’s touch. “For my mother.”

“Oh.” Harry’s hand falls away. “Does she not—”

“Potter, I’ve got to go.”

“Oh,” Harry says again. “Yeah, I’ll see you Wednesday.”

With a clipped nod, Malfoy turns on his toe and walks swiftly down the aisle, disappearing around a stack of books. 

Several seconds later, still staring blankly at the shelves, Harry hears the door charm.

***

It’s just after midnight when Harry’s bedroom walls shudder around him to indicate his wards have been breached. He rolls silently out of bed and slips down the stairs, careful to avoid the one second from the bottom, which has been charmed with an eternal squeak. He rounds the corner to find his parlour empty, then hears a soft clatter from the kitchen. He splays and lifts his fingers, readied to hex, when he spots Malfoy at his kitchen table. Quickly calling back the hot flare of magic reddening his palm, he drops his hand to his side.

“I thought you were an intruder,” he says cleverly. 

Malfoy huffs a laugh and Harry belatedly realises he _is_ one, albeit the nonthreatening sort. He sits sagged back in a chair, legs stretched and lazily angled out in front of him. The buttons of his collar are undone, exposing the graceful line of his clavicle and the top of his chest, and his hair is mussed, but he still manages to look debonair, like his carelessness has been styled just so. He slops a bit of wine from an open bottle in front of him into one of Harry’s goblets with a loose smile, eyeing Harry up and down.

“You break curses wandless, too?”

“Usually.” 

Malfoy purses his lips thoughtfully, nodding. Amused and mystified, Harry grips the back of the chair across from him.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Well spotted. Did I wake you?”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Harry says. Malfoy’s eyes flash up to him, interest sweeping his face, and Harry gestures to the bottle. “Willing to share?”

“It’s blood, but of course. If you like.” Malfoy lifts the glass in a mocking sort of ‘cheers’, then brings it to his lips, throat working as he swallows. He licks the shine of red off his upper lip. 

“I’ll make tea, then,” Harry offers. He hesitates. “If you drink it.”

They’ve never done that, had tea. Sharing meals is somehow different, Malfoy riling him up with snarky little comments as he picks at his food and stares heatedly at Harry through lowered lashes. It feels like foreplay, almost: hunger of one kind, hunger of another. But tea is decidedly… domestic, something you do with a real friend and lover before showering and going to bed, and in Malfoy’s odd little combination of smile and frown, Harry senses a refusal on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m British,” Malfoy snaps. He shakes his head. “I don’t want tea.”

Harry smiles. The fitful pressure of trying to sleep and being unable to has vanished, along with all traces of tiredness. He pulls the chair out and sits across Malfoy, folding his hands over his stomach and leaning back.

“What do you want, then?”

“Thought I’d make up for the double-booking,” Malfoy says. “Shag you a bit.”

Harry’s cock twitches, fattening in his boxers. He clears his throat, glancing at the cabinet which houses a small pot in the back that’s filled with an emergency supply of gold.

“I thought we were seeing each other on Wednesday. I haven’t gone by Gringott’s.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Only Malfoy’s decadent pose and the fascinating softening of his consonants wring a gentle surge of pleasure from Harry, much like that moment in the bookstore before Parkinson interrupted. He doesn’t want to give it up yet, no matter that the time could be better spent. 

“You’re good for it. Probably.” Malfoy traces the rim of his goblet with his index finger, then brings it up to his mouth and sucks on it. “Right?”

“I am,” Harry says, swallowing. He shifts, crossing his legs. “But I’m really tired. I just spent days at work.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy shrugs. Then, in a conversational tone: “She does know, you know. My mum. About me.” 

Harry clears his throat again, disoriented at the change in topic. “About which part?”

“Oh.” Malfoy snorts. He flashes his fangs at Harry with a little smile, quirking one eyebrow.

Harry considers. “Then why the potion? Wasn’t it supposed to make you look less like a…?”

“Yeah. But the etiquette of taking one’s mother out to dinner as a vampire is a bit unclear. She prefers not to be reminded,” Malfoy says.

Offence on Malfoy’s behalf punches Harry in the chest. “I didn’t think your mother was the type to judge someone for— Well, to judge _you_ , anyway, for being different.”

“Oh, no.” Malfoy waves a hand. “It’s that she remembers what I had to do to change. Of course it bothers her; she’s my mum.”

“I can imagine,” Harry murmurs, unsure how else to respond to that. 

“You don’t have to, though.” Malfoy tips a bit more blood into his glass. “If anyone knows what it’s like to have a mother afraid for their child, it’s you. Isn’t it?”

More and more, Harry’s become accustomed to the depths of Malfoy’s perception, but it never fails to surprise him. He nods wordlessly.

“Well,” Malfoy says lightly. “It turns out we do have something in common. I’m appalled.”

Harry’s laugh comes out a bit strangled. “More than one thing, I’d wager.”

Malfoy smirks. “When talking about our mothers, Potter? How scandalous.”

“You were the one who brought them up after talking about shagging,” Harry says fairly. “Why’d you do it? Change?”

Malfoy idly scratches his forearm, brow wrinkling. “Why do you have such a hard-on for the undead?”

“I don’t,” Harry says, then adds, more honestly, “not for most of them.”

“Inferi don’t count, Potter. That’s blatantly disgusting.” He shudders and drains his glass. 

“God, you’re pissed.” Harry looks at him, the sharp absurdity of the moment fading into something soft, curious, affection blooming warm in him as Malfoy stares blearily into his empty glass. 

“Well, it was my turn.” A lopsided smile tilts Malfoy’s lips. 

_I want you._ Harry doesn’t even flinch at the thought. It’s simply… true, in every way he can apply it. 

“Malfoy.” Harry sits forward, looking into his glassy eyes. “Drink from me.”

“Can’t.”

“ _Why?_ ” Harry’s hands curl into fists and he presses them tight to the tops of his thighs. 

“I’ll drain you,” Malfoy says flatly. Harry sucks in a breath, arousal kindling again, reminding him of his half-hard cock and stiffening it further.

“You won’t.”

“I _will_.” Malfoy shakes his head, the tips of his fangs showing under his grimace. “You don’t know, Potter. I’m not very good at denying temptation.”

Harry is. Maybe was. It’s a skill he’s learnt over years of painful trial and error: don’t touch that cake; don’t hide your scar; don’t drop your wand. One foot in front of the other, though the woods are dark and deep. 

_**I want you**_. The words blare so distinctly in Harry’s head, he thinks he’s spoken them for a moment, every temptation Harry’s ever denied simmering to the surface.

“I could stop you,” he says after a beat, Malfoy’s heavy-lidded gaze resting on his face. “If it got so far.”

“You couldn’t,” Malfoy murmurs with a tiny, wistful smile that twists around Harry’s heart. “Where do you think your magic lives?”

Harry barely catches the furious scoff he wants to voice. That’s the problem, isn’t it? 

“I could, but I wouldn’t need to. You’d stop yourself,” Harry says, certain of it in a way he’s seldom been about anything else. He rises and walks to Malfoy, slipping between his legs when they fall open, Malfoy’s hooded gaze travelling up the length of his body and back down, pausing on the swell of Harry’s prick against the front of his pants. Harry holds out his wrist.

Malfoy gulps audibly. “There are... other concerns.” He pushes his chair back and stands, wobbling slightly. With the dignity of the very drunk, he says, “Excuse me. I shouldn’t have come.”

“But why did you?” Harry catches his hips, steadying him. Malfoy’s fangs are still out, longer and sharper than before, but he leans back the way he did in the bookshop, avoiding Harry’s eyes. 

Malfoy inhales for what seems a long time through his nose, eyes drifting shut. When he opens them, he finally looks at Harry once more and says, “My mother is in my flat.”

“You…” Harry laughs, a sound so perplexed and charmed he might be embarrassed about it if Malfoy was paying attention. “You needed a place to crash?”

“It’s a one-room flat, Potter,” Malfoy says, pushing at his chest. “And in the many hours I spent transfiguring it to her tastes, I had the option of spelling an extra bed out of my sofa, or melding the sofa with my current bed to make it more comfortable for her. I chose the latter.”

“Like any good son.”

“Of course.” Malfoy twitches his collar and straightens, throwing him an offended glance. 

“So you came here to sleep.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, blinking. “No. For the shag, but you’re tired even though I could smell the wetness on your prick practically from the moment you saw me, and now you’re offering to let me drain you, so I’ll be quite out of your mop in a second if you’ll let go.”

“Maybe we could work out a deal,” Harry suggests. “A place to sleep in exchange for the shag when I wake up. Since I don’t have any money on me.”

“Mmm. That’s a bit too much like we’d be…” 

Harry’s heart quickens, skips. He tries to regulate it, sure Malfoy can hear the telltale stutter, but Malfoy doesn’t continue.

“Then just sleep.”

“Oh, fine.” Malfoy blows out a breath, cool against Harry’s face. “Whatever.”

He allows Harry to escort him upstairs and strip him, pliantly turning as Harry pulls off his robes, then sitting on the bed after Harry loosens his trousers and slides them down to his thighs. He lifts his legs, one by one, for Harry to remove his shoes and tug his trousers all the way off. He’s wearing black briefs beneath them, his cock so intriguingly plump there’s space between the elastic waistband and his stomach. Harry skims his teeth over it as he rises, warming the material with an exhale. Malfoy jerks, a tiny whine escaping his throat, his hand falling to the back of Harry’s head. 

“Okay,” Malfoy says. “We can do the sleep-for-a-shag thing. Unless you’re one of _those_ ,” he adds, sounding annoyed, “who won’t fuck someone who wants it just because they’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” Harry says matter-of-factly. 

“No?” Malfoy leans back on his hands, gaze sharpening. “But you’re so noble.”

“Malfoy.” Harry snorts, pushing him against the pillow. He wrestles the coverlet and top sheet from under him and draws it back up before rounding the bed and slipping in the other side. “I’m paying a vampire to have sex with me on a regular basis. Stop reading the newspapers.”

“But we’re not going to fuck?”

“I’d rather sleep.” Sorely tempted, the half-truth comes out huskier than Harry intended.

But it matters, that Malfoy came to see him. That they talked, about their mums and other things that would be inconsequential to almost anyone but them. 

Harry thinks about Ron’s unasked question last month; he thinks about his vehement denial that he and Malfoy could ever have… that.

Harry thinks, _Maybe_ , and then Malfoy abruptly rolls to his side and leans in to kiss him. His mouth is barely open but his eyes are, grey and slumberous as he moves his lips against Harry’s with a gentleness he doesn’t usually display. His fingers fan out over Harry’s jaw, that chill Harry’s grown so used to skittering down his neck and chest, and Malfoy tilts his head to the side, parting his lips further and pressing his tongue in to slide slow against Harry’s own before he pulls away with a little sigh through his nose.

“What was that for?” Harry asks, throat tight. The coolness of Malfoy’s fingers lingers like a ghost on his cheek when Malfoy settles against the pillow once more, tucking his hands under it. 

“What are you paying me for, Potter?” Malfoy mumbles, closing his eyes. “I thought it was because—” He snorts quietly. “But now I’m starting to think it’s because you actually might be just as stupidly lonely as…”

“As?”

Malfoy pauses a beat. “As you are horny and rich.” 

The plummet of his heart tells Harry more than he wants to know about himself, about Malfoy — and about the burgeoning answer to Ron’s question. Rich, Malfoy thinks him, and while he might not be wrong, there are too many ways to apply the term that he’s not exactly right, either. Harry has money and power. Even fame, though he’s never wanted it. He’s got such an abundance of fortune at his fingertips there’s no way to explain how deeply overdrawn he is in other aspects of his life. Not without actually explaining. But ‘stupidly lonely’ is right on the mark, so he says, “What if I was?”

Malfoy opens his eyes. He studies Harry briefly, then closes them again. 

He’s asleep within minutes, in utter repose but for the flicker of his eyes beneath delicate lids. Harry’s gaze wanders over his face and finds that Malfoy’s eyelashes curl up at the tips, that the dip above his upper lip is deep when his mouth is relaxed. His hair is like satin when Harry chances touching a strand resting on the pillowcase.

He could take him again, if he wanted — and he does. Malfoy wouldn’t object; he _offered_ , in fact. But in the morning there’d be talk of money again, stabbing little comments designed to push Harry away, and Harry may be able to figure out the workings of a death curse in no time flat but he’s only beginning to understand what makes Malfoy tick. 

Resting his head on the pillow, Harry watches him and thinks. 

Sleep, for him, takes longer.

~*~

> It only happened the once.
> 
> Potter was gone when I woke up an hour after sunrise, a note left on the bedside table as the only reference he would end up making to that night. 
> 
> _Had an emergency_ , it read in astonishingly elegant handwriting, _stay as long as you need. Leave a note with whatever it is that gets vampires that drunk and I’ll pick some up. See you next Saturday, if you’re free. HJP_
> 
> I tore off the bottom of the parchment and conjured a quill, scrawling, _Veela’s blood. Contributed for profit and humanely processed, don’t make that face. I have plenty. See you Sat. DM_ , before spelling my clothes on and Apparating the hell out of there, his missive still clutched in my fist.
> 
> His bed was obviously charmed to be firm under some circumstances and soft under others, I told myself later as I scrubbed every trace of his scent and bed linens from my body in the shower. That was the only reason I’d had the idea to go there; even vampires need to sleep and at that point I’d been awake for going on forty-eight hours, and was horrifically drunk, to boot. No decent hotel was likely to take my money, which left me without a place to rest my head unless I wanted to go Muggle or spend time at the club — and I could have done either of those, the one truth I couldn’t avoid. 
> 
> I was more moderate the following week, allowing myself two glasses of Veela’s blood instead of the five I’d imbibed due to my mother’s presence and talk of my father. I wondered later whether I did it more for myself than him, my fear that he’d reference that night, the kiss. I was at a bigger disadvantage than I usually was, and couldn’t anticipate that when I arrived, he’d be tipsy too — and already naked and waiting for me. 
> 
> He was spread out on the floor, back propped against a mound of pillows as he drew his fist over his prick and smouldered up at me, green eyes dark. Whiskey was spicy on his tongue as we necked and rutted together, and I found Potter to be the giggly sort of drunk, intense as ever but looser, laughing as I nipped my way down his side, then widening his legs and nudging his arse up as I tongued the soft skin of his bollocks. I could smell cleaning charms in addition to his shower, which I appreciated but thought unnecessary, his scent so beguiling on its own. He pressed into me when I hesitantly lowered my head to lick between his cheeks, so I ate him out with deep, steady sucks and thrusts of my tongue, even daring to push a finger into him as his hand worked slow over his prick. I kept at it until his voice vibrated with a whine and he was begging breathlessly, and I was unable to control my fangs any longer. I rolled to my hands and knees and let him have me then, my undead heart flipping sluggish circles in my chest the way it hardly ever did.
> 
> He fucked me twice more in his bed before dawn, the alcohol burning out of his system into his sweat, and I wanted to hate him for the way he smiled as he pounded into me — tried to convince myself I did — but all I could do was hike my ankles up higher on his shoulders and writhe as he milked my cock with one hand. I couldn’t figure out where he got his stamina from; it seemed excessive for a human. Or even a wizard.
> 
> Granted, my experience has been a little skewed.
> 
> Drowsy and fucked out nearing daylight, he slurred, “S’okay if you stay,” before falling asleep. The desire I felt to do just that motivated me out of bed and into my clothes, and I hot-footed it downstairs. As I passed the arch of his kitchen, I automatically looked for the velvet purse of gold he usually left for me there, but the table was empty and so were the countertops. I paused, then noticed the small drawer where he kept the utensils was partway open, a golden-threaded cord trailing from it. I opened it all the way and pulled out the purse with my fee, contemplating what message he might have been sending me by half-hiding it away in there.
> 
> I pocketed it.
> 
> The thing was, I was afraid. I’ve always been afraid of Potter. For a long time, it was because he was my usurper. Before I met Potter, no one had ever mattered more than me, had ever rejected me. Later, it was because I found I wanted him, though he was still those things. Later still, it was the discovery that he wanted me in return, for whatever reason.
> 
> That was more terrifying than anything. 
> 
> I knew at that point, with a cold sense of inevitability, that Pansy had been more right than I’d given her credit for, even then. The dressing down I’d taken after seeing Potter at the bookstore had been earned, her pester of _Draco, if you could see the way you **looked** at him—_ before I’d cut her off. I couldn’t listen to it. I simply… liked that he wanted me. The exchange of money aside, it all felt agonizingly real. 
> 
> And that was a problem.
> 
> I resolved that I would simply do whatever I had to, to ensure it went no further between us. I’d told Potter I was afraid I’d drain him and that was the truth — but not all of it.
> 
> The whole truth, which was only beginning to unfold for me, was that this was not the challenge I had been telling myself it was. The whole truth was that I could sense Potter’s feelings for me were growing and I didn’t know what that meant — but I knew that Potter’s fighting instincts were to Disarm for the kill. He’d never need to attack me directly if I was in the line of fire for my own rebounding curse.
> 
> I sent him an Owl the following morning to say I had a personal obligation that would keep me busy for the following week. I thought… I don’t know what I thought, now. That I’d find my way out of the corner I’d spelled myself into, perhaps. Or that time and distance might bring things back to the status quo. 
> 
> But it’s impossible to keep circumstances static; everything is always changing.
> 
> Even those of us who are never supposed to.

~*~

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Harry looks at Ron without breaking eye contact until Ron slowly nods, a small smile tweaking his mouth. 

“Alright. O’course,” he says. It’s hard to manage such a bland tone while exhibiting such enduring loyalty, but Ron somehow manages it as he re-ties the laces of the apron Harry made him don. “You know I’d do anything you ask. It’ll be done by the morning.”

Harry claps him on the shoulder in thanks, then turns when the timer charm dings.

It was Ron’s idea to bake for Hermione — a small surprise, as she’s been craving vegetables and carbs lately — but he’s a better cook than baker, so he ceded control of the process to Harry, who might not be exactly _grateful_ to Petunia for the wealth of recipes in his head, but at least enjoys using them. Harry pulls the batch of zucchini bread from the oven and places it on the rack to cool, then levitates the three pans of carrot cake batter, laden with raisins and walnuts, into it. He adjusts the heat settings and starts the timer, then turns back to Ron, who’s leaning against the countertop, arms loosely folded over his chest. 

“So, I guess that means you want to take Malfoy with you, then,” he says, giving Harry a knowing look. “Maybe?”

“Maybe,” Harry says as nonchalantly as possible, when his heart is suddenly kicking into overdrive. Ron huffs a small, sarcastic sound and Harry shrugs. “Okay, yes. I want to take him with me.”

“It’s serious, then?”

“I am.” 

It’s the closest Harry can get to admitting what he’s not quite ready to say, renowned Gryffindor courage falling to the wayside. But the few doubts he has left are insidious, creeping into his thoughts around sunset for the last week. He hasn’t seen Malfoy since the night they’d spent having drunken, sloppy, laughing sex, since he’d offered himself only for Malfoy to tease him to the brink and silently refuse by positioning himself to take Harry’s cock once more. 

Since Malfoy had gone looking for the purse Harry had so hoped he wouldn’t want.

Since Malfoy had taken it.

He’s not even _heard_ from him, with the exception of the Owl he’d received the following morning postponing their next appointment — until this morning, when another message had been flown in his window, confirming their appointment for tonight. He told Harry to stay out of the house until eight, because he had something planned.

 _It’ll only be double my usual rate,_ he’d written in a lazy scrawl at the bottom, just above his initials.

Harry only hopes it’s a joke, or that Malfoy isn’t sure of his reception. That he’s scared, maybe, to admit there’s something more between them, as scared as Harry is. But as good as he’s always been at figuring out when Malfoy’s up to something, he never quite got the hang of pinpointing _what_. 

“What do you mean, ‘you’,” Ron asks, going straight to the heart of the matter the way he tends to do. His ginger brows go flat. “You don’t think Malfoy feels the same way?”

“I…” Harry sighs, warming two bowls of icing with his hand and passing one to Ron. “You can never be sure what someone else is thinking, can you? Not without Legilimency, and even then there’s no guarantee.”

“There are ways. There are always signs.” Ron shakes his head, spooning up some of the icing to drizzle over his purple sweet potato doughnuts while Harry gives the same treatment to mini rhubarb breakfast cakes. “I might hex myself for saying anything, but… you remember what Neville said?”

“About his grandmother?” Harry spreads the icing with the back of his spoon and glances at Ron. 

“Yeah. No. I mean, he didn’t actually say it,” Ron says and Harry remembers Neville’s sudden, sheepish silence when he realised Malfoy might be able to hear. He nods and Ron continues, “Well, as it turns out, for the last few years or so, Nev’s parents have been getting bouquets once a month. They sometimes do, y’know, since people started paying more attention to their condition after Nev got so well known, but these were nothing expensive, just cheerful little things — always light and dark pink daisies — without a card. He finally got curious enough to check it out and guess what?”

“Malfoy,” Harry says with not an ounce of surprise. It’s so like him, the way he tries to hide his tender underbelly, the thoughtless kindnesses he extends when he comes over only to charge for them abruptly once he’s realised what he’s done. Ron _tsk_ ’s. 

“Right. But there’s more,” Ron says. “The way he described the flowers made me remember back when we were still getting so many flowers and charm baskets that we had to donate all of them to St. Mungo’s if we didn’t want to sleep huddled in the corner of our flat. Hermione only kept one of them, a bouquet of—”

“Light and dark pink daisies,” Harry says. He falls silent, robbed of speech when Ron makes a noise of assent. Harry sets down the icing spoon and stares out the front window at the dimming sky. He can feel Ron’s gaze on him and takes a deep breath.

“Teddy gets them.”

“What?”

“Teddy,” Harry says, forcing a swallow though his throat feels like sandpaper. “A mix of light pink and white ones. Three times a year: on his birthday, on Tonks’s, and on May second. And I’ve seen the blend of pink ones on Sirius’s grave a couple of times. I looked them up; the light ones mean admiration and sympathy, the dark ones are for gratitude. White daisies mean you think someone is pure of heart.” 

“Merlin,” Ron says quietly. He waits for a minute, then knocks Harry in the arm with his elbow. “Have you ever got—?”

“I don’t know.” Harry breathes unsteadily and searches his mind. “I mean, I wouldn’t. I had to reroute them as soon as the first batch arrived, remember? Had to put up wards and such against the mail and gifts. I don’t think he would have, though.”

“But you won’t ever know, unless you ask,” Ron says, shrugging. “About all of it.”

“Yeah, but—”

They’re interrupted by the bang of the door and a sudden flurried clatter of Hermione dumping whatever’s in her arms and taking off her robe. She appears in the kitchen, eyes wide. 

“ _What_ is all this?” she asks delightedly. She dashes a quick kiss against Harry’s cheek and slips into Ron’s arms. He tosses Harry a wry glance and presses his lips to the frizzy top of her head, her hair pulled into a knot that’s coming undone at her nape.

“We wanted to do something special for you—”

“It was Ron’s idea,” Harry says.

“—because you work so hard. But you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” he says, smiling when Hermione pulls her face from his chest to look up at him. 

“I had to do some paperwork, which I can do just as well here,” she says, hands moving against Ron’s back. His eyes soften further and he bends to kiss her, long and sweet. Harry watches them, an ache tumbling in his stomach even after they unlatch from each other. Ron helps her up onto the counter when her practiced hop is ineffectual, her rounding midsection getting in her way. 

 

Hermione leans across Ron’s doughnuts to pilfer one of Harry’s mini cakes. She breaks off a piece of it, kicking her feet rhythmically. 

“Oh my god, this is splendid,” she mumbles around a mouthful. “You’re brilliant, both of you. _Thank_ you.” 

Ron’s chest puffs out and Harry grins. Hermione looks between them, quickly demolishing the cake, then taking the doughnut Ron offers. “Why are you so quiet? What were you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Ron says, to Harry’s relief. She flicks a glance at Harry, then nods and looks around. Her eyes light up. 

“Is that beet cake?” 

Ron hurries to cut her a slice, the subject effectively dropped until Harry’s leaving. Ron pounds the air out of him in a hug, tucking the letter Harry gives him into his pocket, and says, “You should just ask, Mate. If you really want to know.”

“I do,” Harry says. “I will.” 

He means it, too, words for Malfoy already composing themselves in the back of his mind.

***

“What did you call me?” Malfoy asks softly, eyes narrowed. His wand dangles at his side. Harry watches, a fluster of anticipation crowding his chest, as Malfoy’s grip on it tightens.

“You heard me,” Harry snaps. “You’re lazy. Entitled. _Disrespectful_. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take House points.”

Malfoy scowls, every inch the petulant teenaged Slytherin he once was. He flicks the hood of his robes back and tosses his stylish sweep of hair, gaze calculating. “There has to be a threshold of points you can take from one House and you’ve done that this week. I’ll inform the Headmaster of your prejudice against us!”

Harry scoffs, fixing his mouth into an arrogant smirk. “And who do you think she’ll believe?”

Gaping, Malfoy looks around the transfigured room as if he might glean an answer from the walls. Harry has no idea how long it took him, but it’s done up with perfect attention to detail: double-length desks complete with quill stands and books, heavy tapestries over the stone walls, a professor’s station at the head of the room, where they stand. It’s rather impressive — and did quite the job of derailing Harry’s carefully worded speech.

“Then again,” Harry says slowly, “if you were able to convince me that I was wrong in my opinion of you…”

Malfoy’s gaze darts back to him, sweeping Harry from head to toe as Harry draws closer. His scowl falters and he stands up straighter. “How?”

“I’ve had my eye on you for awhile,” Harry says. “I’ve wondered if your magical talents might perhaps lie elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Malfoy asks, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

In answer, Harry lifts a hand to the clasps at the throat of Malfoy’s robes. He flicks them open and Malfoy inhales sharply, but doesn’t move — not until Harry’s halfway down the line of them, at which point he catches Harry’s wrist in a chilling grip. Harry glances up.

Malfoy wets his lips nervously. “I— I’ve never—”

Harry’s already so hard, he shudders a little when his cock seems to fill out more at Malfoy’s whispered confession. He’d had no idea what to expect upon trudging into his parlour to find a generic Hogwarts classroom waiting for him. But Malfoy was there too, hunched over a desk in Slytherin robes, doodling insulting limericks about Professor Potter onto a torn-off piece of parchment.

Malfoy jostles his wrist lightly and Harry realises it’s his turn to speak. 

“Scared?” he asks. Malfoy’s mouth opens and closes, a little gleam of amusement in his eyes. Harry shrugs.

“Well, I suppose I could always have you write lines for me,” he says, affecting regret and drawing away. “And see if that improves your discipline and attitude.”

“Or—” Malfoy catches his arm. His fangs are already out and it’s the hottest and most frustrating bloody thing Harry’s ever seen. Malfoy swallows. “You’re the professor. Maybe you could just… teach me,” he breathes boldly, gaze holding Harry’s. 

“I suppose I could. If I thought you might take your lesson seriously.” Harry clears his throat, heart thudding with lazy excitement. He’s still in normal clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, but they seem to be ignoring that, so he flicks open the button on his flies and says, “How do you suggest convincing me?”

Malfoy darts his tongue out to sweep it over his left fang first, then his bottom lip. 

“I apologise, Professor. I… I want to learn,” he says, fingers straying to Harry’s zipper before he falters, his thumb moving slow over the trail of hair on Harry’s navel. “I want you to show me how I can… be better in class.”

“Maybe you could demonstrate that your clever little mouth has more uses than defying me in front of your classmates,” Harry suggests. He’s gone hot all over except for where Malfoy’s touching him, a tantalisingly cool stroke against his belly. The scene Malfoy’s picked highlights so many of the sharp edges between them and softens so many others, he doesn’t know what to make of it or what Malfoy’s intent is. Does he want to titillate a client or remind Harry that they both have roles to play?

Can it be his way of showing how they’ve grown beyond Hogwarts, even if they revisit it?

Malfoy looks down between them, brow furrowed with concentration. 

“I’m not sure I’ll be good,” he whispers.

“Getting good at anything takes practice.” Harry huffs a little and rolls his eyes pointedly. “As I’ve been saying all year.” 

With a small, dangerous smirk, Malfoy nods and lowers to his knees. He slides Harry’s zip down, tugging his jeans lower on his hips and exhaling when he sees Harry’s not wearing any pants, and leans forward to nuzzle the base of Harry’s swollen cock. He pulls back and glances up.

“Like that?”

“Take it out,” Harry rasps. “Put your mouth on it.”

Malfoy nods and lowers Harry’s jeans further, to mid-thigh. He pauses when Harry’s cock, freed, bobs before him. He looks up again, face tight. 

“My whole mouth?” His fangs are wickedly sharp now and they muffle the posh, clipped edges of Malfoy’s accent. It shouldn’t be a turn on, those fangs so close to his cock, but it is — and they usually result in the sloppiest, most thrilling blowjobs Harry’s ever had. Harry rings his fingers around the base of his prick and squeezes, and a thick drop of precome pulses out. Malfoy groans, nostrils flaring and pupils blown. He shakes his head, looking bewildered.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, voice low and distant.

Heart suddenly racing, Harry looks down at him. He gives his cock a slow, careful stroke, foreskin rolling back with it to reveal the head. “My thigh is free, if you want.”

“Fuck you,” Malfoy murmurs. But he pinkens a little and looks to the strip of Harry’s bared thigh. 

“Scared?” Harry asks again, heart racing. Malfoy’s chest swells against his robes and his scowl deepens. 

“You’re a horrible professor,” he says, and then his mouth is on Harry’s cock, lip covering his fangs as he licks up the side of Harry’s shaft with long, wet swipes. He replaces Harry’s hand with his own and drags his foreskin down, only to tongue it back up, slick, supple little pushes around and underneath it the way Harry likes, bottom lip skimming the underside of Harry’s glans each time he twists his head from side to side. A moan shudders out of Malfoy that Harry can feel in his balls and one of his hands falls to Malfoy’s soft, pale hair, fingers sifting through it. He wants to angle Malfoy’s head, wants to push his cock between those thin, parted lips.

“Malfoy—”

Pulling back, Malfoy focuses on the slit of Harry’s prick. He laps up every drop of moisture gathering there as he continues wanking Harry with devastating skill, his free hand sliding up to cup Harry’s balls, to roll and tug them. He’s learnt most of Harry’s weaknesses by this point and he utilises that knowledge now with stunning precision, the soft pads of his fingers plucking at the delicate skin of Harry’s sac, his tipped tongue widening Harry’s slit when it pushes in a little. And just when the pleasure overwhelms to the point Harry thinks he’s going to come, Malfoy’s fist twists up to the base of his cock and tightens. He pulls his mouth away, chin dripping with spit, and levers up. 

“Is that what you wanted?” he drawls, wiping his chin with his sleeve and looking at Harry with a touch of defiance. “Professor?”

A growl rises in Harry’s throat and he yanks Malfoy against him, gasping into their kiss when Malfoy’s lips move urgently against his. He flicks his tongue against Harry’s, who jerks his tie loose and out of his collar. 

Harry pulls away, dizzy. Malfoy’s got a thread of blood trailing from one corner of his mouth like he’s caught his own lip on a fang. His eyes are glazed, his hair disheveled from where Harry’s been clutching it. He allows Malfoy to nose along his throat for a few precious seconds, the way he does when his face starts to take that faraway, needy cast, lips pausing to suck stinging little bruises to the surface of Harry’s skin, hips working a beat against Harry’s own as if they’re dancing. The room shimmers and Harry feels the build of magic pulsing behind his sternum, but this time it feels good: hunger on the verge of satisfaction. He jerks Malfoy’s head back and spins him, bending him over the Professor’s desk even as he uses one hand to hoist up Malfoy’s robes and the other to wrench his trousers open and down. 

The small of Malfoy’s back is pale, the dip of his spine deep. Harry strips him of his shoes and watches him shuck his trousers, then shuffle his feet out.

“Put your legs together,” Harry says, breathing hard. Malfoy slants a look over his shoulder and Harry holds up the tie, grinning when Malfoy’s jaw drops a fraction and his eyes ignite with heat.

Malfoy puts his legs together.

Harry swoops, cinching the tie around his thighs. It’s probably too tight, if Malfoy’s subtle flinch when Harry knots the material is any indication, but he makes no objection, merely shifting his toes forward and exhaling when Harry rises and covers him. He peels Malfoy’s cheeks open and groans at the sight: Malfoy’s dusky pink pucker, already glistening with slick and fluttering when Harry slaps it with his cock.

 _“Fuck.”_ Malfoy whines and shimmies his hips, tilting them up. “Show me, Professor. Show me how it can be. I want _all of it._ ”

A soft sound escapes Harry’s throat at the admission; it sounds _real_. He thumbs into position and pushes in on a long, implacable slide, gaze on Malfoy’s rim stretching around him, greedily enveloping the hard length of his prick. 

Panting, Harry stops once he’s bottomed out, balls pressed to the curve of Malfoys arse. Maybe it’s the roleplay, or Malfoy’s mewling little confession, or the tight fit of his cock up Malfoy’s arse, but he can’t do much more than hold himself still, clutching at Malfoy’s narrow hips to keep himself upright. 

Malfoy twists to look at him once more, a devious little smile set over the cut of his fangs. “I said _show me_ , didn’t I? Better make it hard, or else how will I remember the lesson?” he murmurs expectantly, rocking his hips forward. 

The motion slides Harry’s cock out to the tip and he releases Malfoy’s hip to support himself on the edge of the table with a groan. 

“My mistake,” he says breathlessly and slams back into him, the desk thumping under them with the force of it. Malfoy mutters a curse and clenches around him, and the cool wetness surrounding Harry makes his cock throb in warning. But Malfoy’s smirk only widens with satisfaction so Harry does it again, pinning Malfoy to the table with his weight and fucking into him with jarring thrusts, over and over and over. 

Malfoy cries out with each frantic piston of Harry’s cock up his arse. One hand disappears beneath the desk, shoulder moving frantically as the other scrambles to hold onto the far edge of the desk. “I didn’t know,” he gasps as his forehead thunks against the desk, “how brilliant it could feel. P-P-P—”

Harry’s heart twists and the room bends around him as Malfoy’s stammer chokes off. He wants to say so many things, but all he can do is reach around to cover Malfoy’s swiftly moving hand and mindlessly pump his hips with short, emphatic strokes that keep him as far inside Malfoy as possible. He curls his fingers around the head of Malfoy’s cock and tightens his grip, Malfoy’s fist bumping into it as he works it up and down his shaft and fucks backward, the quivering clamp of his legs making the fit of Harry’s cock exceedingly tight. 

Bowing over Malfoy, Harry manages to pant, “I didn’t either,” against the edge of his shoulder, nipping a damp kiss there and rocking harder into him, and Malfoy goes rigid everywhere but the walls of his arse. His muscles tremble, tighten all at once, and he releases his cock to push it into Harry’s hand, pulsing wetly against his palm as his inner muscles convulse and massage Harry’s prick with long, rolling spasms. For all the intensity of his bodily reaction, his accompanying cry is soft and needy, muffled by the way his face presses into the desk. He slides a hand back to dig his fingers into Harry’s thigh and turns his face to the side, cheek flat against the desk as his body relaxes by degrees, his back rising and falling under his flipped-up robes. 

“Come in me,” Malfoy breathes. “I want to feel it, come _on_.”

Harry gasps, pressing against Malfoy’s nape to brace himself and hold Malfoy in place as his climax flies up in him. His choppy thrusts turn slow and deep, a strangled groan tearing out of his throat. He holds himself frozen but for the thoughtless twitches of his hips long after he’s empty, Malfoy’s arse now hot with friction and spunk, his lanky body resting heavily against the desktop. 

Finally a bony elbow nudges Harry in the ribcage and he pries himself up, dizzy. He loses his breath anew as he carefully pulls out and sees come drip from Malfoy’s swollen, loosened hole; he can’t resist rubbing the head of his softening cock against it for a second.

“I can clean you up with my tongue,” he offers. Malfoy groans out a weak laugh, reaching back to shove Harry further away. 

“That’s alright, I’ve got a wand.” Malfoy straightens and Summons it from the floor where he dropped it, first casting a spell to unlash his tie from around his thighs, then cleaning himself and Harry up with efficient flicks that issue short, elegant tendrils of magic. They leave Harry feeling soothed and mitigate his disappointment. Malfoy pulls up his trousers, keeping his robes up while he looks at Harry and fastens his belt. His fangs are receding slowly.

“I thought you might like that,” he says smugly. “Just gagging for the opportunity to put a Slytherin in place, weren’t you?”

“Who was the one gagging for it?” Harry asks lightly, pulling up his pants. Malfoy chuckles and Harry, stomach fluttering at the sound, pauses in the act of shucking his jeans. He runs a hand over the sweat cooling on his forehead, nausea twisting in his stomach as his nerves make themselves known again.

“I wanted to talk a bit, before we—” Harry stops and stares, suddenly realising that Malfoy’s still in his robes, that he’s done his trousers back up. “You’re not staying.”

Malfoy’s glance away is quick; Harry might not have even noticed if he wasn’t watching Malfoy so closely. But his face is calm, genial, when he looks back. He smiles, a distant little thing that makes Harry’s hands curl into fists. 

“No, I can’t.” Malfoy fixes his collar just so, gaze sharp as he turns toward the mirror. He runs a tongue over his upper lip and inspects himself. “But I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“What are you doing, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s gaze meets his in the mirror. “My job.”

It’s like taking a punch. Harry sinks his nails into his palms for something to focus on. As calmly as he can, he says, “We need to talk. About our—” _Relationship_ almost slips out but he catches it, flushing. “Arrangement.”

“Oh?” Malfoy asks with an air of disinterest. “I’ll make sure I leave some time after Wednesday’s appointment, then.” He tweaks a scrap of hair back with his pinky and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.” Harry turns away, kicking his jeans from his path, frustrated enough to shake Malfoy's fangs loose, were he any closer. He heads for the bar and pours himself two fingers of whiskey with a dash of gillywater. 

Goddammit.

When he turns back around, Malfoy is still watching him in the mirror. He slowly pivots and gazes at Harry for a long beat.

“What did you want to discuss?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Harry drains his drink in one long, burning gulp and, when Malfoy still doesn’t respond, says, “Not if you’ve got to go.”

“I have a few minutes,” Malfoy returns evenly, not moving from his spot.

“Why?” Harry asks, the question coming out as hot as the liquor was going down. “Why do you do this? You keep asking why I am. Why do _you?_ ”

“We do what we’re good at,” Malfoy says, looking surprised. He shrugs, glancing around. “And what our opportunities afford us.”

“Was it because vampires are protected?” Harry asks. “Why you—?”

“Yes.” Malfoy swallows and shakes his head with a small grimace. “No. Potter—”

“What did you want to do before?” Harry asks. Malfoy’s gaze sharpens, scrutinising Harry like he thinks he might have gone a bit mad or is perhaps taking the piss.

“A lot of things,” he says flatly. “Professional Quidditch, journalism, Cursebreaking.” He gives a surprisingly indelicate snort and tilts his chin up belligerently. “But I live here, don’t I? There’s no escaping that I am who I am.”

 _Cursebreaking._

Shakily, Harry sloshes more liquor into his glass and edges closer. “And if you could?”

“What is this?” Malfoy demands, taking a step back. “Isn’t it enough for you that—”

“ _No,_ ” Harry says around the knot in his throat. He wants to say it all, to _explain_ , to ask if he’s imagined everything. A lamp in the corner flickers unevenly and Malfoy’s gaze ticks to it. Harry steadies himself with a long breath. “That’s why you’re acting like this; you know it’s not enough.”

“What is, these days?” Malfoy says, a bitter smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. He sighs. “If that’s all, then—”

“I need a vampire,” Harry says baldly. He takes another large swallow of his drink, looking at Malfoy over the rim of his glass. “That’s why I was at the club that night. I was… It really was research. Until l ran into you.”

“I see,” Malfoy says, voice so careful Harry can tell he doesn’t. But his throat works silently for a moment and, in a low tone, he finally says, “I’m not going to change you, Potter. No one will. Not anyone who doesn’t want us to go back to having to hide from the wizarding world at large.”

“I don’t want to _be_ a vampire, you prick. I just have to… I need to bond with one.”

Malfoy sucks in a sharp breath, eyes guarded. “Why?”

“For _my_ job,” Harry says, looking down at the remnants of his whiskey. He swirls his glass a little and scoffs an unamused laugh. “I break curses no one else can. Side effect of being the Master of Death, whatever that means.”

“The—” Malfoy takes one long step toward him and falters. “That’s just a rumour.”

Harry looks at him silently. Malfoy curses under his breath and runs his fingers through his hair. 

“Alright, say it isn’t. Say I believe you.” Malfoy hesitates, face shuttering. “Why do you need a vampire?”

Harry thinks of the speech he’d prepared, the detailed explanation of everything that’s come to pass, of the way his feelings have grown. But the coldness in Malfoy’s face is all too familiar and the words stick on Harry’s tongue. 

“It’s too much for me,” he says. “I need to be connected with someone—”

“With longevity? Like me.” 

Harry nods and Malfoy does as well, slow and thoughtful. 

“That’s why you didn’t let me bite you at first. Because vampires won’t bond with humans who’ve previously been bitten,” he says, eyes narrowed. There’s no point in denying it, so Harry nods again. Malfoy frowns. “And then you wanted me to. Did you think that’s all it takes? I’d be bonded to hundreds of people by now if that were the case. Do you even know what bonding entails? What it _means?_ ”

Harry has a good idea. Bonding between wizards has been outlawed for centuries — it was only ever done by those deeply in love, the books say, and far too devastating when one of them died. It caused a decline in the magical population, witches and wizards unable to move on and procreate with someone new if one of them passed away at a young age. It’s anyone’s guess how different bonding to a vampire might be, but the information they’ve gathered implies it’s still a form of declaring one’s commitment and constancy towards someone else.

“I know there’s more to it than being bitten. We know there’s more to it. I wanted you to bite me because…” Harry swallows. “...because I thought you could be the one. I’d like for you to be. I’m willing to do whatever’s necessary,” he says quietly, looking away, “if you’ll agree.”

Malfoy huffs a small, withering laugh but his eyes are hard when Harry looks up, his face wiped clean of expression. 

“I’ve got to go.”

“Stay.” 

In Malfoy’s hesitation, Harry thinks he sees what he’s almost sure he’s caught glimpses of before: the same fearful yearning he saw once in a boy on the Astronomy Tower, the same stark, hopeless courage he’d witnessed from a boy staring into his eyes in Malfoy Manor. But it’s so quickly concealed, he can’t tell if it’s reality or wishful thinking. Malfoy squares the set of his shoulders.

“Where’s my fee?”

Harry draws back. Malfoy’s holding himself so rigidly, he’s practically vibrating, as if he fears he’ll crack with one wrong move. 

“At least come back on Wednesday,” Harry says. “Let me explain. Malfoy, I decided on you because I—”

Malfoy holds up a hand, jaw tight. They look at each other, a hot, uncertain current passing between them. 

“I hoped you were joking about the fee,” Harry says, throat aching. His _bones_ hurt with it, with how much it’s costing Malfoy to stay so controlled. “You said… What you said when we were— about how it felt…”

“You thought I _meant_ that?” Malfoy asks, a venomous sneer twisting his mouth. “You were my _professor_ in that little scenario.”

“I meant it,” Harry admits. “Come back on Wednesday. Please.” 

Malfoy’s scathing expression flickers. He gazes at Harry wordlessly for a long moment, then clears his throat.

“I’ll be going now.”

“Your double-payment is in my jacket pocket,” Harry says. He heads up the stairs, unable to watch Malfoy leave.


	4. The Bottom Line

Harry wakes up off-kilter the following morning, so run-down and stressed he can barely think. Meditating, he locates a nearby curse in Scotland which feels like a viable candidate to take on in his state; it’s moderately dangerous but will give him some necessary focus, at least, and doesn’t look like more than a one-day job. It isn’t.

He’s back by sundown and doesn’t even know how he finds himself on Ron and Hermione’s doorstep, shaking from the pain until Hermione discovers him when she goes to let Crookshanks out. 

Recovery takes longer, seconds passing by like hours as he sweats out the side-effects of the curse he’d taken down. Lucid moments are few and far between and at one point Hermione, soft hand pressed to his greasy brow, nervously murmurs, “Maybe we should Owl Malfoy. Maybe he’d—”

In his fevered loneliness, Harry remembers the almost-fussy quality of Malfoy’s caretaking when he was sick before and wants him there, but he knows enough to give Malfoy some space; he remembers a fight.

“We’re… No,” Harry says hoarsely, tugging the blankets up to smother his shiver a little more. “I think we might not be...” 

“Harry,” Hermione says helplessly, hand falling away. He thinks she says something more, but he slips back into unconsciousness too quickly to hear it. He dreams of things chasing him through steamy jungles and swampy bayous. He dreams of a white-sanded island under the moonlight, of grey eyes sharp with humour, of the flash of fang.

When he finally wakes up again, he feels better. He manages a whole bowl of stew, served with an admonishment from Molly through Ron about how Harry is missing too many Sunday dinners.

Ron waits until he pushes the tray away with a replete sigh before levelling Harry with a look. 

“Are you okay?”

Harry scans his system with a basic diagnostic charm, concentrating on each of his overtaxed organs and his strung-out metabolism, on the flourishing beat of his heart, but he can’t bring himself to see the look of fear in Ron’s eyes again. There’s nothing Ron can do about it, anyway, and worrying won’t help.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Ron nods, lips pressed tight. He stretches out his legs next to Harry on the bed and crosses them, idly scratching his cheek. “It’s taking more out of you. And even longer for you to heal.”

Harry breaks off a crust of leftover bread and pops it in his mouth, avoiding Ron’s gaze. “S’not a big deal.”

“ _Not a big—!_ ” Ron’s gone stiff, long face tight with fury. But he’s more restrained when he says, “Malfoy. You said you’d talk to him about things.”

“I did. It didn’t go well.”

“I _knew_ it,” Ron mutters disgustedly. “I knew Malfoy would fuck you over like this.”

“You seemed to indicate otherwise, before.”

“I was being supportive,” Ron snaps. His shoulders come down, a little of the anger easing from his face. “Well. I was being… Anyway. Just tell me he didn’t do it on purpose. Led you on so he could say no.”

“He didn’t.” Harry closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I just said it didn’t go well. I’m going to talk to him again.”

“ _Harry._ ” Ron lets out a long, measured breath. “If it doesn’t go well— you’ve wasted too much time. One of these days you’ll go out and not…” His throat bobs and he scrubs his palms over the tops of jeans. “I— I know you care about him, however else you might feel—”

“I’m in love with him,” he says. The words come easy now, no longer avoidable. Ron looks over at him, unsurprised. 

“I know,” Ron says grimly. “But if it goes badly again... Find someone else. You’re… you,” he says, expression daring Harry to argue. “There’s got to be someone in the Registry. Someone you’ll get on with, who could end up meaning something to you. Or even someone who just wants to… help. It can’t be hard to find a decent vampire willing to bond with you.”

No, it wouldn’t be. Harry had been counting on that fact, actually, when he’d investigated the club to get a feel for what they were like. He’d just never counted on finding the one vampire — the one _person_ — who might have genuine cause to hesitate, who might resent his name more than he desired a taste of his fame and power. 

“I’m going to talk to him,” Harry repeats. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“I’ll Owl him as soon as I get home, okay?” 

Ron narrows his eyes and climbs off the guest bed to march out of the room. Harry looks around to discover they’ve moved most of the furniture from it. There are smears of paint in different shades of pastel green decorating one wall, and a large crib box in the corner. 

He looks up when Ron returns and thrusts a piece of parchment and a quill at him, Pigwidgeon perched on his shoulder. 

“Write him now.”

Harry’s temper flares just for a moment, but his gaze strays to the unbuilt crib once more. He takes the parchment and quill. One eye on Ron, he carefully writes,

_Malfoy,_

_Let me know when you’re free, or just come over if you are as soon as you get this, please. We need to talk asap._

_HJP_

He rolls up the slip of parchment and hands it to Ron, who ties it to Pig’s leg. “Get this to Draco Malfoy at—”

“He has an Owl Post Box. Sends missives directly to him,” Harry supplies. “1899.”

“Got that?” Ron asks. Pig nips him on the ear and flutters out of the room to look for an open window.

“I’ve got to go home,” Harry says, pushing the blankets back. One of them has changed him into pyjamas, so he waves a hand to Summon his bundle of clothes from where it sits in the nearby, cushioned rocking chair. He holds it to his chest and gets up slowly, his legs wobbling a little.

Ron catches his arm to steady him. “Just wait here. Pig won’t take long, there’s an Owl Post right around the corner.”

“I told him to meet me there as soon as he could.” Harry rubs at a knot in his shoulder. With every passing second, he feels more like himself, but he’s unaccustomed to being this… _off_ as he recuperates. “I was sick for three days?”

“Three days? No,” Ron says flatly. “Nine.” 

Nine. Days.

“When did I show up?” Harry hears himself ask, voice faint.

“Last Sunday night.” Ron’s brows come together. 

Pigwidgeon flies back in, hooting softly. He lands on Ron’s shoulder once more, looking pleased.

“I really do have to go now,” Harry says woodenly. “Malfoy could be responding or Apparating to my place as we speak.”

Ron hesitates a beat, then walks Harry to the Floo in their parlour, hands hovering around him like he thinks Harry might fall. When Harry grabs a fistful of powder, Ron says, “And if it doesn’t go well again?”

“I’ll find someone else,” Harry says. ”I’ll let you know how it goes.”

His stomach feels hollow despite the fresh food in it and he feels ill as he throws down the powder and calls out his own address. He tosses his clothes into a nearby chair and sits on the sofa, the room hauntingly quiet about him. He spells open a window and waits.

The owl, when it arrives, is one he doesn’t recognise, like all of them are. A sturdy brown barn owl, who offers a scroll to Harry, then politely takes one breaded cricket from the bowl Harry points to before it flies off. Harry opens the scroll and blankly reads, 

_I think we settled things well enough the last time we spoke. Do not contact me again._

_Best wishes, etc._

_D.M._

Harry heaves himself up from the sofa to kneel before the Floo. He tosses down a pinch of powder and sticks his head in, taking a deep breath to call Ron, but it turns out to be unnecessary: Ron is still pacing by the fireplace in his house, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. 

“Harry!” He comes down on his haunches. “Is he there?”

“No, but he’ll be here in a bit,” Harry says with a smile. “He said he missed me.”

“Fuck,” Ron breathes, eyes closing. “ _Good_.”

“I think so too. Listen, I’m not sure how long it’ll take, so we might hole up for a few days,” Harry says uncomfortably. “But I’ll Owl you by Friday.”

“Yeah, okay.” Ron scans his face. “I guess you can bring it out of even someone like Malfoy, yeah?”

“He’s not like he used to be, Ron,” Harry reminds him quietly, eyes suddenly hot and stinging. “Not really.”

“No, I know. Sorry. He couldn’t be, anyway, or you couldn’t—” Ron breaks off with a grin, shaking his head. “Good luck.”

“Thanks. Give Hermione my love.”

Harry pulls back at Ron’s relieved nod and sits, green flames dwindling before him. When they’re completely out, he pushes himself off the floor and heads up to bed.

~*~

> When I was sixteen, Potter cut me open from jaw to hip. It’s not something people in general _know_ about, of course, that the Golden Boy had that sort of ruthlessness in him, that kind of malice. I don’t think he even knew — an atrocious blunder, Professor Snape told me when it first happened; Potter likely hadn’t even known what the curse did. To be fair, I did try to cast an Unforgivable at him first.
> 
> But like most curses, there has to be real intent behind them to cause harm. I don’t know if mine would have hurt him, because it didn’t land.
> 
> His did.
> 
> I had nightmares about it for a few years, before being changed vanished the scars. Granted, they weren’t the worst of my dreams, but here and there I’d be treated to one that included Potter’s wretched, accusatory eyes as he pointed his wand at me and Myrtle screamed in the background. The pain split me open, as bad as the first Cruciatus I’d taken the summer before — though, thankfully, not as long-lasting. 
> 
> Harder to come back from was Potter’s revelation of why he’d been on the hunt for a vampire, any vampire, the night I saw him at the club. That he needed someone to shore up his magical strength so he could keep on with his duties as the Saviour of the wizarding world. Harder still was that he wanted it to be me, the implied emotion behind the desire, and the words I couldn’t let him say because I didn’t know if I would believe them.
> 
> Worst was my knock on his door four days later going unanswered. 
> 
> I knew I shouldn’t have gone, but something about Potter’s face when I’d asked for my payment compelled me. He’d looked disconcertingly like the boy I’d so desperately wanted to befriend years ago: eyes wide and blinking, a little spellshocked.
> 
> Pansy was beside herself when I showed up at her door, unable to face the pressing silence of my flat. She was indignant enough on my behalf that I was spared the _I told you so_ ’s she’d probably been practicing for months. It was the first time in years I’d seen her look not remotely abashed when referencing her public faux pas the night of the battle. 
> 
> “I wish he _had_ died,” she said, refilling my glass with the last of the Veela’s blood I had. Anaesthetising comfort food.
> 
> “No you don’t.”
> 
> “Well, no,” she admitted, self-righteousness shrinking a bit in the face of what might have happened. “But after,” she said. “I definitely wish he’d died after.”
> 
> “Yeah. Me too.” I was drunk then and didn’t mean it, but Merlin did it feel good to say. 
> 
> When I got his letter a week later, it was like scarred skin pulling tight over my chest. He wasn’t able to find anyone else, I presumed, and anticipated that his almost-declarations might mean something to me. Maybe he’d offer me more money.
> 
> It was easy to detach from at that point. I felt remarkably calm writing a refusal, a rejection of Potter’s needs. I closed immediate communication from my Owl Box so I’d not be alerted when I received something new, and felt even better.
> 
> I’ve always been a proprietary person; I want what I want and expect to have it. Unfortunately, this quality didn’t fade after the war and only got worse, in fact, in my new state. Vampires are notoriously possessive, which is why we can’t bring ourselves to bond to someone who’s been bitten before. The first bite of a vampire always leaves a scar and the reminder that a human mate has given their blood to someone else is intolerable — or so I’d been told. Bonding with Potter was unthinkable and exactly why I could never consider drinking from him; I wasn’t sure I could do so without giving far more of myself than he’d paid for. 
> 
> After all, the deepest cuts I’d ever received were from Potter’s hand.

~*~

His second Owl goes unanswered, as does his third. It’s no less than he expected. Harry doesn’t know whether Malfoy had shown up or not — or if he _would_ have, if Harry had written in time — but they’d left things on too precarious a note for him to presume any kind of grace.

Part of Harry wants to rage at the unfairness of it all, wants to have the sort of row that might give him a sense of closure or result in getting what he wants. If there’s anything he’s sure about it’s that Malfoy feels something for him too — no one is that good an actor. His cowardice is infuriating and it _is_ unfair. 

But... he _hurt_ Malfoy by asking that from him. For whatever reason, it had hurt him, and Harry’s let it go on too long. Maybe if he had asked before he’d realised how much he cared about Malfoy, it could have ended differently.

On Thursday, he finds a letter from the Ministry in his accumulated mail. He forwards it with a note and doesn’t wait for a response; he doesn’t need one, anyhow. Time is running too short. But he’s good at tracking things, magic and instinct and training helping his way, so he waits until dark to construct himself a Glamour and go on the hunt. 

Diagon Alley has grown by leaps and bounds since the end of the war, old businesses prospering once again, new ones filling so much space they’ve had to magically extend the roads. It’s true of Knockturn and its branches, too, though Dark businesses are on the wane, Ron’s said. The winding streets mostly consist of sordid or thirdhand shops and cheap places to eat where a sickle can buy you a whole meal — if you don’t care that the cleanliness and ingredients of the food are questionable. 

But there are other places like the club, which Harry takes care to avoid, along the interconnected series of alleys that emit a faint red glow from the cobblestones under and around him. Places where the room rate upstairs is taken in fifteen minute increments, places like the narrow alley Harry finds again with no trouble, though months have gone by since he first went searching for it. 

Vampires loiter here, leading the humans who approach over to little niches in the stone buildings which Harry supposes are transaction zones. The unoccupied vampires eye him with smirks, both interested and dismissive, a couple with laughable attempts at threat, as though Harry should be the one who has cause to fear. Even if he could, resignation blots out everything else as he rejects one after another for being too tall or lanky or blond or striking. 

Finally, he spots a vampire lazing on a small stone bench who fits the bill: dark brown hair and eyes, olive-complected. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans and is handsome enough, in a generic sort of way, and looks about thirty, though with the decelerated rate vampires age, it’s hard to tell. Harry pushes his magic out to scan him and finds he’s as friendly as he looks, exceedingly cheerful, the accommodating type. He wants to _please_ and there’s no mesmerising sneer accompanying the tilt of his come-hither smile, so Harry takes a breath and walks over.

“Agnello,” the vampire says in a pleasant, Yorkshire accent, removing his foot from the other seat of the bench so Harry can sit down. “Nell.”

Agnello. _Lamb._ About as far from a dragon as one can get. Harry lets go a breath.

“Harry. Are you working?” 

Nell’s nostrils flare widely and the tension in his body grows alert. “Yeah. What’s—?”

Harry waves a hand. “It’s me.” He runs down the necessary list of questions in his mind and asks, “Have you ever bonded before?” 

Sitting back again, Nell gives him an odd look. “No. But I’m not even forty.”

“That matters?”

“You think I want to mourn a human who drops off two hundred years before I die?” he scoffs.

“And what if that wasn’t a concern?” Harry asks, throat tight. “Would you be open to it?” 

“Listen, _Harry_ , I don’t care how good you smell. I’m open to a drink and a fuck, which is more than a lot of us will do here. Might even discount you, because you _are_ so” he inhales slowly, eyelashes fluttering, “appealing. But we don’t just bond with random wizards, that’s not what this place is about. There has to be a reason, understand? A damn good one. A little tip so anyone else you proposition doesn’t drain you too deep from insult.”

“What constitutes a good reason?” Harry sucks in his cheek. “Someone signing over half their vaults?”

Nell looks him up and down, eyes narrowing. “That might help, but it’d also depend on how much were in them.”

“A lot. What about magical fortitude? Power.”

“Who are you?” Nell asks bluntly. 

“Someone willing to pay a lot to get what I want.” 

“I guess so,” Nell murmurs. So swiftly Harry barely sees it coming, he grips Harry’s sleeve to tug him forward. Harry fights the instinct to tense and allows himself to be drawn over Nell, stiffening only a little when the round, cold tip of his nose runs up and down the side of his neck. It’s painfully intimate, and Harry forces memories of Malfoy’s purr out of his mind, going lax against Nell who doesn’t release him for what seems like a long time. 

“You weren’t kidding about the power, there,” Nell breathes, fingers tightening in Harry’s sleeve. “I’d get to drink that regularly?”

Harry thinks of Ron, of Hermione. Of Teddy and the Weasleys and a baby he wants desperately to meet. 

“Yeah.” He pulls away and stares at him flatly. “I’ll deny it if it doesn’t work out and you ever tell anyone,” he says. He waves a hand over his face, letting his own features shift back into place for a few scant seconds. “They’ll believe me.”

Nell sits upright, blank shock dropping his jaw. He closes his mouth, fangs still showing over his lower lip.

“Yes. I’ll do it.” It’s immediate, _fervent_ , and Harry shoves away the tingle of disgust at the easy capitulation, at the fascination and greed that shines in Nell’s friendly eyes as he glances around furtively, like he’s afraid the other vampires will see who he’s talking to and intervene. “But why me? I’ve never met you.”

“I like the way you look,” Harry says, which is true. He stands and offers his hand, pulling Nell up. 

“Come on,” he says, gesturing to the corner. “I’ll Side-Along you.”

“Sounds like a good time.” Nell keeps up with Harry’s strides as they walk. He’s a little shorter than Harry, a little stockier, well muscled. Perfect.

“Sure.”

Nell runs an appreciative hand over his hip with a disbelieving laugh. “Relax a little. You know, I did see you once in person. Four years ago, that ceremony where—”

“Not here,” Harry says tersely, a cloying, sickened feeling pitching in his stomach. “We can… we can work things out at mine.”

“I can’t wait.”

Harry’s heart pounds as they near the end of the path, his breath coming light and quick. He concentrates on steadying it but still his nausea intensifies, sweat breaking out on his brow, and hears a low, familiar laugh. 

Harry freezes and glances over, unable to look away from Malfoy and his companion as the rest of the world blurs around them. They’re blanketed in shadows, but Malfoy stands out starkly, pale hair falling over his forehead as he tucks some gold into the pocket of his trousers. He runs a finger along the line of the man’s neck and smiles, tilting his head. 

As if he can sense being watched, Malfoy looks up, brows drawing down in confusion and possibly interest at Harry’s blatant stare and, with a jolt, Harry realises that he’s still Glamoured. That Malfoy hasn’t scented him yet.

Before he gives into the temptation to explode the buildings around them, Harry pulls Nell closer and Disapparates.

***

Nell is on him before Harry finds his equilibrium, suddenly having grown four extra hands. He grabs at Harry’s arse, his hips and the backs of his thighs, his chest and nape, inhaling against Harry’s jaw until his lungs must be overfull, then exhaling loudly. “Have you been tasted before?”

Harry loosens his fists and tries to relax. “Yes,” he grinds out. “But I've not been bitten.” 

“Then you're in for a treat.” Nell licks Harry’s neck and moans. “And so am I.” 

“We need to talk,” Harry says, refusing to cringe from the cool slide of Nell’s mouth over his neck. “Logistics.”

“Let me have a taste, first,” Nell says, skimming a fang over Harry’s skin. Harry jerks back, every instinct blaring alarm, and sees what the darkness hid before: Nell’s dark eyes are barely more than pupil, his cheeks are blotchy red. He’s cheerful alright, and Harry wonders how much of that is his natural disposition and how much of it is the result of whatever he’s taken.

“You’re high.”

“Fed off a potions addict before you came along,” Nell says, fangs viciously sharp behind his smile. “Most of us don’t go there because we have extra gold for the finer wines, Harry. They call it Feed Row for a reason.” 

“I’ll make some coffee so you can sober up,” Harry says. “Then we can talk.”

Nell shoves him back against the wall, hand forceful on his chest. “A sip of you will get that done faster.”

Harry laughs. Really, he should be disappointed, but all he can feel are the exceptional strains of relief. 

“You know,” he says, digging in his pocket to pull out a purse full of Galleons, “perhaps we’re not well suited, after all.”

Nell glances at the purse and shakes his head. “Harry Potter is in my hands and you expect me to walk away without having tasted him?”

“You expect to be able to force Harry Potter to do something he doesn’t want?” Harry asks, not bothering to disguise his snort. 

Nell narrows his eyes and opens his mouth and, for a single bewildering second, Harry thinks the loud bang of sound has issued from him directly. But then Nell flies across the room, body twisting limply in midair like the ragdoll Dudley used to throw during a fit. He hits the middle of Harry’s staircase hard and collapses in a heap. Harry turns.

Malfoy stands there, wand raised, magic and rage curling off him like smoke. He flicks his wand again and Nell Vanishes. Harry finds his voice.

“Where did—?”

Brandishing his wand at Harry, Malfoy’s gaze falls to the money purse in his hand. “ _Incendio._ ”

The bag lights up, engulfed in flames, singeing Harry’s fingers even as he drops it.

“ _No,”_ Malfoy says, voice raw. He stalks closer and covers Harry’s chest proprietarily, hand oddly warm through Harry’s shirt, erasing Nell’s touch there. “ _Not him._ ”

“Who then?” Harry demands, stomach pitching now for a different reason, a jumble of fury and arousal, of pain and terrible comfort. Chills skitter up his arms, down the back of his neck; his cock, miserably soft in Nell’s presence, hardens with painful speed. 

“Not him,” Malfoy growls. He’s breathtaking like this, the soft colours of his skin and hair and eyes a shocking contrast to the tension in his lithe body, to the dynamic, uncompromising magic pouring out of him in waves, battering against Harry’s automatic defenses. His gaze burns through Harry and he pulls back his upper lip to bare his fangs. “You want to give it away so badly, Potter, I’ll be the one who takes it from you.” 

Harry almost moans, he wants it so badly. But anger is still slicing through him, as agonising as any curse, and without even raising his hands, he knocks Malfoy into the opposite wall of the foyer, magic pinning him in place.

“Yeah? For how much? What _won’t_ you take from me, you fucking _coward_? ” All good intentions fled, the words fly out of him like he’s sicking them up. 

“Nothing,” Malfoy hisses, straining as though he’d like to wrap his pinned hands around Harry’s throat. “There’s nothing I won’t take.”

“ _You_ don’t get to.” Harry glares at him, breathing hard. “ _You_ wouldn’t, Malfoy, remember? _You_ you went running every single time you let me _see_ you. I’m not some random bloke you can feel superior to as you get him off in an alley, am I? No, if _you_ do it, you’ll be reminded of how you’ve never measured up. That’s why you never wanted to,” he says, bitterness boiling up from somewhere he’d kept hidden even from himself, “because you knew that drinking from me would take you back to when every fucking thing I did made you choke on your jealousy, that I’d taste like every time I beat you, taste like every single one of your failures. I don’t _want_ that shit from you any longer,” he says, voice thick and damp. “I need—”

Harry goes mute at Malfoy’s wild, caustic laugh. He unpeels himself from the wall, dissolving Harry’s charm with only a few hard flicks of his wand. He reaches out to snag Harry’s shirt and hauls him close, noses almost touching. 

“You need _what_?” Malfoy snarls poisonously. “No one _needs_ it, not even me. You want to pretend it’s not a choice you’re making to satisfy a darker hunger, but even I’m not so arrogant as to foist off my decisions as something other than what they are. You just want to live in both worlds. It’s why you run off whenever you can, why you work so hard at keeping the titles the world bestowed on you when you were a nothing but a _baby_ why you’re so reckless with all you’ve got. You just want it because—”

“Because it’s fucking _killing_ me!” Harry bursts out. The truth of it tightens behind his breastbone, the wild, kinetic energy of his so-called gift flooding hot magic through his veins toward his heart. 

Malfoy’s eyes widen and he starts to fall back but Harry grabs him by the arms, keeping them close, every secret he’s had to keep nothing but a gush of pain he can no longer keep inside. 

“Because _no one_ is meant to master Death and the bastard knew it the whole time he was crafting the Hallows! You think it’s fun, do you, being so celebrated for things I had no control over? You think I _like_ living my life chasing down curses so I can absorb the death they’d wreak just to feed the thing that’s eating me from the inside out? I _need_ to link with a vampire, you’re the only ones who have a connection to both life and death! You’re the only ones who can fucking _save_ me, you absolute _arsehole!_ ”

Their chests rise and fall against one another’s, and Malfoy finds his shirt again in a tight grasp, time stuttering to a halt.

“Then if someone’s going to save you, it’s going to be me,” Malfoy says. Harry raises an arm to knock him away again or perhaps deck him, anything to satisfy the turmoil thundering through his brain now that it’s been let loose, but suddenly his hands are fisted in Malfoy’s hair because Malfoy is kissing him hungrily, fangs sliding over Harry’s bottom lip so hotly and sweetly he doesn’t realise it’s been nicked until he tastes his own blood. 

Harry kisses him back, desperation surging through him, and Malfoy sucks his bleeding lip into his mouth, puncturing it again, mouth working over it to coax the flow. He groans, arms winding around Harry to hold him close, stiffened cock rubbing high against Harry’s pelvis. Harry goes lax in his grip, pleasure spiralling through him as Malfoy closes the wounds with a slow, wet lick, and raises his head. His eyes are glazed, pupils nearly swallowing the grey, and his face is suffused with colour.

“ _Harry,_ ” he breathes, gaze filled with… revelation. Harry thinks, _Draco,_ and pulls him down into another kiss. 

Somehow, they make their way into the parlour locked together like that; somehow their clothes fall away. Harry’s magic thoughtlessly weaves out to send the furniture flying back against the walls, creating space for them on the thick rug in the middle of the floor. Draco wrestles him down to it, spreads him on it, a fire roaring to life in the hearth. He sinks his fangs into Harry over and over, sipping down over his neck to the bend of his shoulder with pulling little kisses, rough, dazed sounds escaping him. 

Harry feels the leak of liquid down his collarbone, and the unexpected, spurting pulse of his cock as he comes is a distant second to the euphoria of Draco’s mouth on him, to the penetration of his fangs. Gasping, he covers Draco’s stomach with warm semen, slides his still-hard prick through it, Draco working against him with mindless little shifts of his body. 

The taste of tears rises in the back of Harry’s throat and Draco blinks rapidly, breath coming in with a sharp inhale through his nose. Harry says, “ _Please_.”

“Yes—” Draco’s voice cracks, his head twitching from side to side. His magic sweeps out over Harry’s skin and Harry opens for it, mindlessly tearing down every carefully constructed ward around his heart to take more of him in. Draco moans and abruptly flips him over, fangs sliding into the muscle of Harry’s shoulder, lower teeth clamping down as he drinks deeply. Harry gets a dizzying flash of himself at the age of fourteen, huge-eyed and bleeding from one cheek as he raced away from the Hungarian Horntail on his broom, golden egg tucked under his arm. Draco retracts his fangs, lapping over the bite with a distracted hum so the blood starts to clot. He slides down to nose along the wing of Harry’s shoulder, then the crease of his armpit. 

“I’m going to _have_ you,” he mutters, biting there too when Harry lifts his arm to draw it over his head. Draco breathes in, nose buried in the curls under Harry’s arm, rocking his hips, the wet head of his cock dragging against the back of Harry’s thigh. His fangs wring another hard twinge of pleasure from Harry as they slide out, his breath gusting over the back of Harry’s ribs. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Harry says. He rests his cheek against the soft fibres of the rug. “I want it. I’ve _wanted_ it.”

There’s a weighty pause before Draco nips at his nape, tentatively at first and then harder, sucking over the heat that blooms there. Harry groans, rubbing his prick against the carpet, and Draco leaves off to lick his way down the indentation of Harry’s spine, warm damp trails left in his wake. He spreads Harry’s arse cheeks and slides his tongue into the crack, swirling it sloppy-wet over his pucker, sucking at it the way he did the last time they were together. But his timidity has vanished, his hesitation, and he pushes his tongue roughly into Harry, fingers digging into his arse cheeks as he spreads them wide to fit his face closer, soft smacks and tiny, possessive growls sounding through the room. Harry sags, the hot and greedy way Draco’s eating him with such single-minded focus loosening his muscles to the point where he can’t even arch back against it. 

“I’m— going to come again,” Harry says as Draco’s tongue spears into him again, curling inside his rim to lick over the minute furrows of his hole, nipping over the outside with blunted teeth. He pulls away with a loud, satisfied exhale. 

“Come, then,” he says, and continues kissing down Harry’s seam to his balls, pulling them into his mouth with a soft slurp. He rolls them around briefly, gently, fingertips coasting over the sensitive insides of Harry’s thighs, then releases his balls with a quick smack.

Harry groans, turning his face into the rug to muffle the sound. Draco says something under his breath — then sinks his fangs into the tender crease where Harry’s thigh meets his cheek just as he pushes two lubed fingers deep into Harry’s clamping arsehole. Harry cries out so loudly, it should drown out Draco’s mindless grunts and the sounds of his frantic swallows as he sucks, still plunging his twisting fingers into Harry, but somehow Harry hears it all, _feels_ it, and a bright flash comes to him from Draco’s mind of his own mangled, swollen face at the Manor so many years ago, his mother’s green eyes defiant and afraid, and with it a sense of Draco’s certainty in that moment, in who Harry was. His second building climax ambushes him, every sore and aching point on his body throbbing so splendidly he doesn’t even realise he’s coming until he feels the carpet grow damp under his jerking prick, a torrent of thoughtless pleas rushing out of his mouth.

“ _Suck me_ , oh god, Draco, _fuck_ me, fuck, I _need_ it, get your cock wet and put it in me, your teeth, _harder_ , oh Jesus, please, Draco, do it, I-I can’t— _f-f-fuck—!_ ”

He still doesn’t go soft. 

Frenzied gulps rend the air and Draco doesn’t pause, finger-fucking Harry with increasing speed and finally just pushing his fingers deep and _moving_ them as Harry squirms against the carpet, his sphincter convulsing around them. He’s limp when Draco eventually pulls them away and rises to mount him, fangs wrenching another cry from Harry as they slip out. The heavy line of Draco’s long cock presses against Harry’s cleft, the slippery crown rubbing over his tailbone. 

“Say it again,” he orders, rough and stifled, lips against the outer ridge of Harry’s ear. “Tell me you want it.”

Harry nods weakly, lifting his hips against the hard press of Draco’s prick. “I want it.” _I want you._ “I want it. Fucking _have_ me.”

Draco’s head drops to the back of Harry’s neck; his thighs part to straddle him. He inches his hips back and stuffs a hand between them, guiding the head of his cock to Harry’s hole, already slick from his fingers. His cock feels massive as he pushes in, Harry’s arse stretching around it, his body jerking with automatic protest. Draco lays a hand flat between his shoulder blades and keeps going, cock sliding in until he’s fully lodged. Panting, Harry scrambles to adjust, to relax into it, but Draco doesn’t let him, immediately rearing back and thrusting with long, unrelenting strokes. He lowers himself over Harry’s back, fingers skimming Harry’s triceps and forearms, to cover Harry’s fists with his hands. 

“Such a tight little arsehole, Potter,” he whispers, fucking into him hard and fast. “You were so desperate, you were going to share it with just anyone?”

Harry moans and spreads his fingers and Draco’s slide between them, curling to grip his palms. “I— I _saw—_ ”

“I know what you saw,” Draco says. His fangs pierce Harry’s nape again, warningly, and the rumble in his throat grows louder. Harry shivers, the tight ring of his rim dragging around the steady plunge of Draco’s cock into his arse. “You think I didn’t recognise your magic when you Disapparated? Were you looking for me?”

“Anyone _but_ you.” Harry hisses it through his teeth.

“But I was the one you wanted. You want _me_.” Draco licks over the taut tendons of his shoulder. “Don’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Harry says, eyes hot and wet, body shifting back and forth with each of Draco’s thrusts. “ _Yes._ What were you even doing with—”

“Because I fucking wanted you, too,” Draco breathes furiously against his neck. “Because I haven’t been able to, with anyone, because I _only wanted you_ , and I had to see if I still _could_.”

“Suck me, goddammit.”

The sound Draco makes is more animal than human and shoots straight to Harry’s aching prick. Draco’s hands tighten against his for a second before releasing him to grasp at Harry’s hair, to yank his head to the side. He half-rolls them, one long calf winding around Harry’s shins to keep him still, his free hand tight against Harry’s waist. 

“I’m going to come in you—”

“ _Yes_.”

“—I’m going to fill your arse up with it—” Draco whips his hips, cock battering Harry’s prostate, coaxing another cry from him.

“ _Yes. Draco!_ ”

“—get you all wet and messy with my spunk—”

Harry’s breath comes out a sob. He twitches, trying to rut back against Draco with no leverage. “ _Nnngghfuck!_ ”

“—make you so sore from my cock you won’t remember what it was like before you took it—”

Lips parting with a wordless cry, Harry scrambles for Draco’s hand on his hip to guide it to his cock. Draco places the mound of his palm over it and rubs from base to tip, teasing a thin ooze of precome out the slit. 

“—make you come so much that I’m soaked with it too—”

Harry’s thighs shake, balls rising tight between them, hips arching against Draco’s restrained hand.

“—and I’ll bury my teeth in you and drink,” Draco says, sounding mad with it, “and _drink_ , and then who will have bought who, Harry? Who will you belong to?”

Harry rolls his head to the side as far as Draco’s hand will allow. Draco’s eyes are intense on him, dark, his gleaming fangs displayed. He lets go of Harry’s cock and yanks his hips back, a pointed stroke, then stills.

“ _Draco_ ,” Harry says. It sounds like a promise, and a tide of something that feels like pain — but somehow isn’t — rises in him with it. 

Draco’s eyes flutter closed, the tension in his face fading. He lowers his head and bites into Harry, drinking with an almost-restrained snuffle of breath against Harry’s bared neck, his cock impossibly hard as he resumes fucking him, memories washing into Harry’s mind so fast he can barely process them: a sooty hand reaching out to Draco in a blaze of fire; sleepless nights in sixth year; seeing Harry the first time in the club and the moments after, the thought, _He wants me_ unfurling in him as quiet as a prayer. For each memory Harry’s given, he feels one taken from him in a slide of in and out that feels so much like the exchange of sex that Harry cries out, grinding back deliriously, and reaches to hold onto Draco’s arse. The muscle clenches under fingertips and Draco’s lips move against him, warmth seeping to trail beneath them. He slides his palm over Harry’s prick again, each driving stroke of his hips pressing Harry into his touch, his fingers fanning out around just enough to glide against the oversensitive underside of Harry’s cockhead. 

Harry groans, leaning his head back against Draco’s shoulder, sure he can’t come again, sure that the outpouring of pleasure rocketing through him will plateau, allowing him no higher. But then Draco folds his fingers tight around his cock. He pulls on it fast, breath stuttering against Harry’s neck, the flared crown of his own cock rubbing _excruciatingly_ over Harry’s prostate, lips suckling hard against Harry’s throat, and Harry’s mouth opens on a soundless moan. His cock jerks in Draco’s fist, arse quivering around the gliding fullness up his arse. 

Draco pulls his fangs out with a gasp when Harry’s climax slows. He swiftly rolls Harry onto his stomach again and yanks Harry’s hips up and back, raising him to his knees and pushing back in all in a matter of seconds, smooth as a choreographed dance. He pounds into Harry harder, each shuddering push of his cock a _claim_ , and then Draco rocks into him and _stays_ , and Harry can feel every pulsing inch of him as he comes, warm semen flooding him so hard it starts dripping out before Draco’s even finished. 

The silence is loud, broken only by the pops of the fire and their high-pitched, erratic wheezing. Faintly, Harry wonders why Draco is breathing so hard at all. His fingers are like a vise on Harry's hips.

“No one else will ever have you,” Draco says. “I’m the only one.”

“I was telling him to go,” Harry breathes. “Draco—”

Draco’s fingers tighten to the point where Harry can distantly sense true discomfort. He strokes his cock out a few inches. Bottoms out once more, slowly. He’s not going soft, either, but his voice gentles. “Say it. I’m the only one.”

“You’re the only one,” Harry says. Draco whines, holding onto him, and the pain knotted inside Harry comes unbound at the sound. “I love you, yes. You’re the only one.” 

Draco’s cock jerks. “You have replenishment potions?”

He sounds drugged. Harry collects his splintered focus. “Upstairs.” 

“Summon them,” Draco says, still gently rocking in and out of him. “I’m going to keep fucking you.”

Harry does, a soft cry of objection wrenching from him when Draco pulls out. But he only turns Harry onto his back before pushing his wet, rigid cock back into him. He absently pops the lids off two bottles and tips them to Harry’s mouth, one after the other. Harry swallows them down and Draco kisses him, fangs sliding over his tongue. He sucks on it as he wraps Harry’s legs around his hips and braces his hands on either side of Harry’s head. Harry locks his ankles together with a sigh; unbelievably, his cock feels full and heavy again. 

Draco draws his mouth away, lips red and wet, face painfully earnest. 

“I won’t take too much,” he promises, quiet and hoarse. He drags his cock out to the tip, so unhurried it feels like a tease. Harry shudders, clamping around it to not let him go. Draco shudders too and pushes back in just as slow, balls finally settling against Harry’s arse, and there’s something surprised in his eyes, something soft, careful, and Harry loves him so much. So much. He tightens the grip of his ankles around him. 

“Take what you want,” he says. “You can have whatever you want.”

Draco’s chin softens and his eyes go bright and shiny. He kisses Harry once more and rolls his hips, and Harry feels it: a link curling between them, twining, a solid gold glow of their magic fusing together. 

Time passes in a series of pulse-lit moments: a bite on Harry’s throat, another to the inside of his thigh. A kiss, a suck, a gasp. Somehow they make their way up to Harry’s room where Harry drags Draco up to sit on his face as Draco bows over him and moans around Harry’s cock, hips shimmying with every push of Harry’s tongue into him. He crawls forward and sinks over Harry’s prick, then lays his back against Harry’s chest, pulling his wrist up to drink with hungry little grunts as he writhes atop Harry and comes untouched, painting his own belly with long ropes of spunk. When they doze, Harry wakes up with Draco working three fingers into his hole, slippery with come, and he drinks from a shallow bite on Harry’s chest, blinking dazed grey eyes up at him as he massages Harry’s prostate with ruthless swirls of his fingers. 

Bottle after bottle is opened and consumed, discarded in a clinking pile next to Harry’s bed. When Draco reaches for one to find them all gone, he slides his fangs out of the juncture of Harry’s thigh and groin and mounts him once more. 

“I can’t again,” Harry whispers, the round head of Draco’s erection slowly breaching him. The oversensitive tissues of his rim feel hot and swollen, tender, but he arches into the press of Draco’s cock anyhow. Draco shushes him.

“I know,” he says. He rolls to his side and pulls up Harry’s thigh to drape comfortably over his hip. He kisses him. “Go to sleep.”

~*~

> There’s no real way to describe the taste of Harry’s blood or what it did to me. The sample I’d got months before was nothing in comparison to drinking directly from his body as he came again and again from my bite. His blood was like life and death and earth and magic, all fermenting together for thousands of years. 
> 
> It wasn’t all him. There was a film of something else over his magic that could only belong to someone who held a title like the Master of Death and having had him, I wondered how I could have ever doubted the rumours. He too easily reined in the the flow of such potent magic, was too thoughtless about wielding it. Every spell he performed was a simple thought, a mere gesture, and though once I might have found myself covetous and resentful of his realised potential, it no longer even mattered. What mattered was how Harry was a spice I’d never tasted — that no one ever had, or would again. 
> 
> Muggles will tell you that blood is composed of things like water and proteins and hormones, globulins and nutrients. Unspeakables say that magic is a recessive gene, that your magical talents are often inherited. But here’s a secret only vampires know: your blood tastes like whatever most comprises who you are. I’ve had clients whose blood was bitter, ringing with sharp tones of disappointment and shame, others who were as sweet as anything from Honeydukes, some whose blood was so floral I could sense they were skillful herbologists. 
> 
> Harry tasted exactly as you’d expect, looking at him. Knowing who he was and what he’d done. Laughter and loyalty and hope were the base elements of his composition, flavours backlit with the heavy ache from his shoulders and years of disturbing dreams. He tasted like _everything_ , and whatever else he’d become, whatever he’d done, to infuse his blood with those enticingly deep notes didn’t matter either — because it was him I wanted. 
> 
> Death comes for everything, Harry said. Even vampires, eventually. It’s the one immutable truth of life and I swallowed it down with every sip of his blood. Death comes for everything, I thought, kissing him as we fucked. 
> 
> But it wouldn’t come for him if I could help it, not yet.
> 
> I almost drained him. Frankly, I’m still shocked that I didn’t, that his faith in me was well-placed. I bit him again and again, delirious with it, shaking not from the wash of power but from the way Harry gave himself over to me. I couldn’t _stop_ biting him, in fact, couldn’t curtail the urge to keep taking him until his body was a beautiful wreck of my marks, until he’d not be able to move without being reminded that he belonged to me.
> 
> The flip side of that coin was that I belonged to him as well. 
> 
> I won’t lie: that in itself was terrifying. I could have run. I wanted to.
> 
> But I loved him too much by then to leave.

~*~

When Harry wakes up, the drapes are closed and Draco’s lanky form is pressed against him, one arm thrown over his waist, cock finally gone soft and slipped free. Though Harry doesn’t want to, he eases himself out of Draco’s stupored clutch and hobbles painfully to the loo to piss.

Washing his hands, he stares into the mirror. His skin is a rainbow of colours, bruises in various stages of healing. There are fourteen sets of fang marks where Draco drank deep, and twenty-odd more where he slid a fang in to tease, to pleasure, to warn. Each of them aches and Harry’s cock twitches as he traces them delicately, the pain dovetailing with a surge of pleasure every time he touches one. 

Everything is different now. The constant, necessary itch to control his magic is gone, though when he twiddles his fingers experimentally, their tips flare hot with the spell in the back of his mind. His exhaustion and discomfort is normal and human, not a reminder that he needs to head off into danger to prolong his life for a few more weeks, and it’s all because of Draco.

Without even meaning to, he made way for Draco in all the hidden pathways of his heart. Or maybe Draco forged his own, the way he always seemed to have to, with everything. 

Stomach rumbling, he takes a deep breath and heads back into his room. Draco’s sitting at the foot of the bed, a pillow crease against his cheek, his hair flat on one side and sticking out around the rest of his head. He’s got his hands folded in his lap. 

“Did I wake you?” Harry asks. It shouldn’t sound awkward, but it sort of does.

“You left,” Draco says simply. 

“Sorry.”

There’s a mutinous set to Draco’s jaw, but his voice is sober when he says, “Did you say you loved me so I would bond with you?”

Harry swallows. “No. You were already doing that anyway, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” 

“Then why would I lie?” Harry exhales and drags a hand through his hair, wincing. Every muscle hurts. Draco stands, watching him narrowly, then turns to dig around in Harry’s bureau for a minute. He tosses Harry a pair of pants and a shirt, pulling out some for himself as well.

“Come on,” he says, slipping a t-shirt over his head and stepping into the pants. “You’ll feel better if you eat something.”

The height difference between them can’t be more than two inches and they’ve each got skinny builds, but the hang of Harry’s clothes on Malfoy is somehow both short and oversized, boxers sliding down to show the jut of his hips, baring a strip of his flat stomach below the hem of his shirt. Harry’s face heats with how much he likes it. 

Draco slants him another look, a small smile curling his mouth, like he knows what Harry’s thinking. 

“Need some help?”

“Yeah, might. I’m, ah, a little sore.” Harry lowers down into a wing chair, uncomfortably bending to get the pants on. 

“I’m not surprised,” Draco says, kneeling at his feet to draw the boxers up his legs. He pauses when Harry uses him as a prop to stand, his head near Harry’s half-hard dick, back rising against Harry’s hand as he inhales. “I did use you hard, after all.”

Harry shivers, letting go, and Draco tugs the pants up over his hips and rises. He helps Harry get his shirt on, carefully sliding the material over his head for him, smoothing it down his torso once his arms are in. Their eyes meet and Draco keeps petting him, touch light on his sides as he strokes over the various bruises and fang marks left there, and Harry feels a surge of tightly-reined arousal from him. He can tell Draco is hard too without looking down, without touching him, and, startled, Harry realises where Draco’s knowing smile came from before. It’s not like Legilimency, this new thing between them, but… it’s close. 

Draco shakes his head, mouth set in a pleased smirk. “Eat first.”

Harry obediently follows Draco down the stairs to the kitchen, sitting when Draco hums and pulls out a chair, then brings him a glass of water.

“Where did our clothes go?” Harry asks. He takes a small drink, then a deeper one, parched throat only making itself known once it’s been wetted, though he has vague memories of Draco pouring water into his mouth several times from his wand. He drains the glass and refills it with a wave of his hand, gulping that one down too. He works on the third with more measured sips when Draco raises an eyebrow.

“I Vanished them.” Draco turns to hunt through his cooler, pulling out a rasher of bacon and sniffing it before setting it on the counter. 

“I figured that,” Harry says as Draco sets cheese and some bundled herbs alongside the bacon and grabs some eggs from the pantry. “To where?”

“Peru, I think,” Draco says. Harry snorts a laugh, watching with interest when Draco fills the kettle and taps the hob with his wand to begin heating it. 

“Tea?”

“You asked to have some with me, before,” Draco says, his back to him. There’s a stiffness to his shoulders, and as Harry studies him, a low, lingering sense of nerves wafts off Draco to curl around Harry’s heart.

“I can eat anything,” Harry says. “Toast is fine. I like toast. You don’t have to make me a full breakfast.” 

Draco’s shoulders come in tighter. He reaches over and pulls out a few slices of bread from Harry’s breadbox, popping them in the toaster. 

“I really do,” he mutters.

“Draco, it’s fine—”

“Potter, could you shut up?” Draco asks, pausing to grip the edge of the counter. Concerned, Harry starts to rise, but Draco says, “I’m not domestic or even particularly that worried about feeding you, but if I don’t keep busy and distract myself for a few minutes, I’ll bend you over the bloody kitchen table, okay?”

“It really is,” Harry says thoughtlessly, eyes wide, sinking back into his chair. 

Draco growls, knuckles whitening, then continues what he was doing, stomping around the kitchen as he prepares Harry’s breakfast. He uses the Muggle appliances with practised ease, ignoring Harry as he fixes up a quick egg scramble, heavily laden with herbs and cheese and crisp chunks of bacon. He butters the toast as the tea steeps, then levitates two servings of everything over to the table, though the portions that land in front of Harry are noticeably bigger.

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly. Draco merely flicks him a glance and tucks into his eggs, so Harry does too, the first mouthful bringing an appreciative groan to his lips. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“I worked in a kitchen,” Draco says, waving his fork without looking up, “before. But it was Muggle, and the exchange rate is terrible. Only I couldn’t get wizarding jobs with the Mark on my arm. Then I ran into Marcus Flint, who had an eye on me back in school. He had some Galleons on him; he was the first. I was still human. It was alright.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes. He takes another bite, processing both the information and the offhand way Draco’s dealt it out. It’s not a bad way to do things, so he focuses on his plate and says, “Three years ago, McGonagall called me into Hogwarts to break a curse that had accidentally been woven into the stones by a set of experimental fourth years. My magic had grown too strong; it almost exploded the castle before I was able to Apparate away. I spent three weeks in a coma. Hermione figured it out and brought me out of it.”

Draco nods, munching on a bite of toast. He brushes the buttery-slick crumbs from his lips and wipes his hand on a napkin, then says, “I did that for a couple of years, then was hired by a vampire who offered to change me afterward. He told me that my Dark Mark would fade, given enough time. I thought, I might end up living for a few hundred years, but at least I’d be able to get a real job.”

“Right. Good idea,” Harry says. He stabs into his eggs, glancing at the washed-out shadow on Draco’s forearm. “We found out about the vampire thing about a year later. I didn’t want to do it; I’d already spent so much of my life belonging to other people, and absorbing death curses was _working_. But last year everything faltered. I had to start looking for bigger curses, deadlier ones. It was taking me longer to recover from every injury, and I was getting injured every time I went out, so after I spent two weeks with my leg in a splint, I went to the club Snape had suggested.” 

Draco looks up at that, a quick flash of amused grey eyes. “Snape?”

“Yeah.” Harry swallows his bite. “I talk to his portrait sometimes when I visit Hogwarts. He gives pretty good advice when he’s not in a shitty mood.”

“He knew I was there.”

“What?”

“His effects had to go somewhere.” Draco smirks. “I wasn’t allowed the contents of his vault, but he had a small portrait in his quarters that I took. It’s in my flat, he visits it occasionally.” He sips his tea and applies himself to his food again. After a moment, he offers, “I haven’t done bedwork since a few months after I turned. I haven’t needed to.”

Harry inhales. “I wanted it to be you from the second you showed your fangs. I just didn’t know how to admit it. It’s my fault, all of it. I should have known you wanted me too after the first time. I never should have paid you, and it could have been free between us.”

Draco’s silent for what feels like a long time. He sets his fork aside and pats his mouth with his napkin. His gaze is as steady as his voice when he looks up. “It was. If you still think the money was ever a factor, you haven’t been paying attention. As it happened, I’ve not spent a single Galleon I took from you. It all felt like a game, for a while. Didn’t it?”

“Until it didn’t,” Harry says. “Why did you keep taking it, then?”

“Because you wanted me enough to keep paying it,” Draco says, so matter-of-fact it takes Harry’s breath away.

“And now we’re bound, so I suppose it’s irrelevant, anyway. What’s mine is yours,” Draco says. His pause feels like heavy drapes closing, but there’s no waver to his voice when he adds, “For as long as you need.”

Harry shakes his head, bewildered. “No, I’m… I’m fine. I can feel it.” He leans forward when Draco drops his gaze to the tabletop without moving his head, expression immobile. “I can _feel_ it. I’m fine now.”

“Now, yes.” Draco fiddles with his butter knife, running the flat of it idly against the scarred wood of the table. “I’m glad.”

Oh. 

Harry swallows the remainder of his tea. He forks up the last of his eggs and says, “I’m going to live as long as you do. It’s one of the only things we were able to posit for sure — that once my magic was linked to a vampire’s, I’d go on as long as he did. If that’s what you’re referring to.”

There’s a familiar throb in the tone of Draco’s silence, completely different from his pause a moment ago. Harry sets down his fork without taking the bite and looks at him.

His eyes are fixed again on Harry with that same glassy, intense look as when he first approached Harry in the club. He plants his hands on the table, fingers splayed. “How are you feeling?”

Harry eyes him. “Sore,” he murmurs, “but interested. You?”

Draco pushes up, stands. “Very, very turned on.” 

“Good. But I’ll either need to top or—” Harry starts. Draco sweeps the remains of their breakfast to the floor with his wand and Harry jumps up as he moves, rounding the table so fast he’s a blur of pale skin and feral eyes.

Then he’s on Harry, hands fisted posessively in his hair, tongue pushing fast and rough into his mouth. Harry moans, clearing the broken dishes from the ground with a swish of his hand and whirling Draco back to the table, Draco’s legs coming up to hook around the backs of his thighs when Harry scoots his arse onto the edge of it. They neck like teenagers, too eager to get their pants off as they rub against one another, groaning into each other’s mouths, and as they grapple, Harry’s suffused with the sudden, utter certainty that it will always be like this. He doesn’t know if the thought is Draco’s or his own, but it doesn’t matter — nothing does, except the greedy drape of Draco’s arms around him and his kisses against Harry’s mouth.

Harry will always need him, always want him, as desperately as he does now. It’s inevitable that they’ll fight, and they may even hate each other from time to time, but the bond has done more than save Harry, more than tie them together; it’s brazed every point of heat between them, every cutting edge and softened link of their past, like interlocking pieces of a steel puzzle. Harry’s survival rests in Draco’s hands like his heart does, and for the first time in his life, he’s given himself wholly, freely, and without an ounce of regret.

Draco drags Harry’s head back and scrapes a fang under his jaw, just hard enough that Harry the burn of it. “Where are you?” he breathes.

“Here,” Harry shudders out, coming back to the moment and moving faster against him. “I’m _here_.”

Draco laps up the dripping thread of blood on Harry’s neck and seals his mouth over the score he’s left there. He grips Harry’s arse, palming his cheeks wide and bucking up against the grind of his cock, and Harry’s orgasm slams into him like a tidal wave. He comes with a low, shaky cry and is hit with another _incomprehensible_ burst of pleasure when Draco starts coming too, rocking upward with jerky thrusts as he moves Harry’s hips with tight hands. 

They hold each other for a long time, Harry taking deep, unsteady gulps of air, Draco’s sucks against the graze on his neck gentling. Draco unlatches, eyes lust-shot when Harry pulls far enough away to look at him.

“Bed?”

“Bed,” Draco agrees breathlessly. 

“Parlour first, for fuck’s sake!” comes a strangled yell from the other room, and Harry and Draco break apart like two cats hauled away from each other by the scruffs of their necks. 

“Was that—?”

“Yes. Shit.” Harry groans, flicking his fingers at Draco as he pulls himself away, then casting a cleaning charm over himself with a little too much force. “I was meant to go over to their place today. What fucking time is it?”

“Go talk to him. I’ll just stay right here,” Draco says with a smug little smile.

Irritated, Harry grabs him by the arm and hustles him bodily into the parlour, ignoring the threatening way Draco bares his fangs and snarls under his breath — to be honest, it’s more arousing than anything else.

“Ron,” he says, dropping Draco’s arm. “Hi. Where’s Hermione?”

“She’s ditched me,” he snaps, grey-faced. “Twirled on her shoe the second we came through and heard… that.”

He nibbles on his lip, squinting gaze darting back and forth between Harry and Draco. 

“Guess she’s allowed to do that sort of thing right now,” he mutters grudgingly. “So, you guys have been busy?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry says, heat climbing his marked throat. Even Draco, stiff and unmoving beside him, looks a little pink-cheeked, and a jolt of mortified indignation works its way through Harry, forcefully sent. “I, uh, know I was supposed to come by this morning…”

“This morning?” Ron takes a step forward. Another. Harry tends to forget how tall he is, how fucking _intimidating_ he can be when he wants to. He leans back as Ron steals into his space, practically spitting with rage. “This _morning?_ It’s fucking _Sunday!_ We haven’t been able to access your Floo for _days!_ What the fuck have you guys been _doing?_ ”

Speechless, Harry glances at Draco to find he looks just as surprised. 

“Playing a long game of Twister,” Draco drawls, pulling himself up and nudging Harry with a sharp elbow when he snorts. “What do you _think_ we’ve been doing, Weasley?”

“Twister’s a lot of fun,” Harry says, wincing when Draco elbows him again. Ron shakes his head, jaw hanging.

“We thought you might have died,” he whispers tightly, searching Harry’s face. Harry’s lingering humour vanishes, and he closes the space between them to hug Ron. He’s shaking a little.

“No. No, I’m okay,” he says. “I’m going to be okay, now.”

Ron relaxes after a few tense seconds. His arms come up to hug Harry back, tightening briefly before he steps away. He grips Harry by the shoulders and breathes in and out, gaze finally taking in the mottled bites over Harry’s neck and arms, the unhealed nick just under his jaw. “Then he—?”

Harry nods and Draco huffs petulantly next to him. “I’m right _here_ , Weasley.”

“Yeah,” Ron says roughly, letting Harry go. He turns and hugs Draco with a deep exhale. Draco goes rigid, panicked eyes darting to Harry, who can only shrug with helpless shock. Draco tentatively pats Ron on the back. 

“Thank you,” Ron chokes into his shoulder. “ _Thank_ you. _Really._ ”

“Uh, sure. This is really uncomfortable for me. I don’t much like you yet.”

Ron draws away, grinning. His face is red and his eyes are wet. “You’ll learn.”

“I guess I’ll have to,” Draco says, voice dry. 

“You love him?” Ron asks, looking at him intently. Harry squirms, opening his mouth to object but Draco cuts him off before he can.

“I love him,” he says evenly. “Plus, he tastes like sin itself and is a god at all party games, Muggle or Wizarding.”

Ron snickers. “I heard. One minute wonder, over there,” he says, jerking his head in Harry’s direction without looking at him. Harry, stalled on Draco’s declaration, frowns when Draco cracks a smile. For someone who seemed so offended at being the topic a moment ago, he doesn’t seem to have much of a problem carrying on a conversation about Harry in his presence.

“I’ve a deft hand at party games too,” Draco says amusedly. Ron seems to realise he’s still half-holding him and steps back with a cough. 

“I’d better go let Hermione know,” he says. He shoves his hair back and looks at Harry, a sheepish little smile creasing the corners of his mouth. “Come by later if you’re not too occupied with Spin the Bottle or something.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, I will. Send Hermione my love.”

“Okay. You should come too, Mal— Dr— M-D—”

“Malfoy’s fine,” Draco says.

Ron gusts a relieved breath and heads to the Floo. “Take care of him,” he says over his shoulder. Stepping in and turning around, he looks at both of them, leaving Harry to wonder who he was talking to as he disappears in a resplendent emerald cloud.

Silence fills the room. Harry looks at Draco to find him still staring at the fireplace. At length, Draco says, “Not a single part of that wasn’t weird.”

“I’m a god at party games?”

“Third best I’ve ever played with,” Draco says. Harry grasps his wrist. 

“Don’t,” he says quietly. It’s an automatic reflex, the distance Draco puts up, and one he doesn’t need ever again. Not with Harry. 

Draco’s shoulders ease. “No,” he says. An apology. “I won’t.” 

Reassured, Harry presses a kiss to his mouth. It’s soft, a little sweet, and totally unlike them. It feels brilliant anyway. “I want you to come with me, when I start taking jobs again. If you want to. I really could use a partner and I think you’d be great.”

“As a travelling cursebreaker,” Draco says flatly. “Has it slipped your mind I can’t leave the country?”

“No.” Harry laughs quietly. “And you should really check your mail. But we can talk about that later.”

“Why not now?” Draco asks, suspicion flaring in his eyes.

_Because I want you again now. Because I love you in a way that makes me finally feel like I can start living. Because you told Ron you love me without blinking and I can’t keep my hands off you for another second so I can get you to say it to my face. Because we have so much to work out, to talk about, but now we have lifetimes in which to do it._

Draco stares at him, pupils growing. His breath hitches and his fangs gleam under his upper lip.

“Because we used up all Hermione’s medical-grade replenishment potions,” Harry says, intrigued by the promise of sex and flourish of love in the deepening of his own voice as Draco slowly smiles. Harry takes his hand and smiles back. “But I have several more upstairs.”


	5. Epilogue: Priceless

> It was a surprise, Harry told me later that night, refusing to speak more on the subject for two days until I pointed out that if I had to go fetch my mail, we’d have to leave the privacy of the house. It made him hedge enough to tell me — between soft gasps, my head bobbing in his lap — that he’d called in a favour. Then of course he promptly ruined my interrogation by balling a hand in my hair and arching, cockhead sliding sweet into my throat as he shook and came under me. I could never get used to it, even after all those months of fucking — the addictive taste of him in my mouth.
> 
> But I still can’t claim to be after twenty years, so I suppose that’s something I’ll have to live with. 
> 
> I gave in at sunset, primarily because we’d finally used up all of the blood replenishment potions he had on hand. After a dash to the closest Apothecary, we retrieved my mail, where I found that Harry’s ‘surprise’ was a letter from one Percy Ignatius Weasley, Head of Accountability and Probation Offices. It informed me with utmost apologies that in accordance with the life-sentence laws of 1846 as they pertained to non-violent vampires in article nine, my sentence should have ended two years prior.
> 
> As it turned out, the lack of privacy wasn’t much of a deterrent. More unsettling was the fact that I nearly got arrested thirty minutes later for letting Harry press me to the grotty stones of a nearby alley, my legs held tight under his forearms as he fucked me and groaned, my fangs sunk deep into his neck. He saved the day, like he always does, though I do like to point out that I probably wouldn’t have needed his intervention if he’d thought to wear a Glamour the way he usually did in public back then.
> 
> It was an… interesting reintroduction to the public at large, to say the least, so I suppose the commutation of my sentence was good timing. It allowed us to escape, first to Paris for a long stretch to explain things to my decidedly bewildered mother, then to Amsterdam, because Harry said he needed a proper holiday and had never been there before. If I had a modest bone in my body, I might be ashamed of some of the things we did in between the more touristy activities like attending the Van Gogh museum and dancing under the stars at the Vondelpark Openluchttheater. 
> 
> We got to know each other over those months in all the ways we’d never allowed ourselves to do while falling in love: broaching topics that felt too forbidden to discuss before we’d bonded, figuring out new ways to fight so we didn’t hurt one another. And near sunrise each night we’d stumble back to the expensive hotel I’d paid for with the money Harry had used to rent me, locked in each other’s arms, Harry’s rushing blood calling out to me like music. 
> 
> Harry’s extended group of friends managed the resultant press storm in our absence, and after a while we were able to return, even walk the streets together, Britain no longer the cage it had become to me for so long. It felt like home again with Harry at my side, and it was far easier than I ever thought it would be to ingratiate myself with his adopted family, to connect with his friends. The pledging of my life in a bid to save his was enough to forgive my host of sins, it seemed. Pansy was more difficult to get on board, and to this day pretends she doesn’t like Harry, though she’s no longer able to hide her regard for him when we get together. 
> 
> “He makes you happy,” she said on a visit to our refuge once, taking the wine she’d requested from me, as comfortably as she would have from a house elf. She was stretched out and swinging gently in our hammock, her hair piled atop her head, dark sunglasses hiding her gaze. 
> 
> “This isn’t a nude beach, you know,” I said. Pansy smiled and dropped one long leg down to push off from the sand with her toes, naked but for her turquoise bikini briefs, her pale tits on display. 
> 
> “He makes you happy,” she said again. She drew her glasses down the bridge of her nose to peek at me over the rims. 
> 
> “Yes. He makes me happy,” I said. It felt like a confession and I didn’t know why; it wasn’t something I could hide. But Pansy knew me better than anyone other than Harry and her observation felt oddly intimate, one of those things people who are close don’t openly discuss. 
> 
> “You never thought anyone would.”
> 
> It was true. But I’d never thought Harry Potter would look at me the way he did, either.
> 
> I handed her the bikini top she’d tossed to the ground. “Pansy.”
> 
> She slipped her glasses back up. “If you try to tell me you and Potter don’t walk around starkers whenever you want in this weather, I’ll hex you. Anyway, the only person who comes by is the woman who jogs down the shoreline every day around this time and I’m hoping she’ll be intrigued,” she said unapologetically, making no motion to reach for the top. Then she sighed and leaned her head back against the netting, resting her glass of wine over the dip of her belly button, and murmured, “I’m glad you’re happy. I always wanted you to be.”
> 
> And I knew that was true too. So I threw her bikini top over my shoulder and sat with her until the woman who lived down the beach from us started to draw nearer, at which point I retired indoors, to Harry’s side.
> 
> Looking back on the exchange the following morning, Harry sprawled bonelessly next to me, I realised that she’d been giving her blessing, in her way. Not only for him, but for the life we led — which I knew she considered hazardous, though it really wasn’t. Harry’s power had only grown in the last several years and our skill sets were shockingly complementary. I had a knack for devising ways to break intricate curses that didn’t endanger Harry once he examined their properties. 
> 
> It’s rare for us to take jobs these days. It’s rare that we’re _needed,_ so many dabblers in the Dark Arts foiled by our efforts. There will be an uptick in requests for our services, I’m sure. These things tend be as inevitable as the tide: people hungry for authority or recognition, factions who believe in their supremacy, witches and wizards who are curious enough to ignore the danger and arrogant enough to believe they can dominate it once things go awry. We step in if and when we’re ever needed.
> 
> For now, though, our life is mostly quiet, equally split between our bungalow in Aitutaki and our home in London. And beyond the blaze of happiness I feel, there’s a contentment too, one I never knew was possible for me. 
> 
> I used to think that loving someone was a sacrifice you made, something designed to bring you pain. That was my experience, at least, and I don’t regret feeling that way; it enabled me to do the work I did, to make the choices I made, all of which led me to Harry — who taught me to understand things more clearly. Love doesn’t cause pain so much as _readies_ you for it, and sacrifices can be made without feeling an ounce of loss. 
> 
> We’ve found—

“You’re not done yet?”

Harry looks up and grins. Draco’s trying to look irritated but only succeeds in looking more nervous. Not that Harry needs to interpret his expressions anymore; he’s become quite adept at recognising when the high emotions washing through him are coming from Draco. 

“You only gave it to me last night,” he says mildly. “I’m on the last bit now.”

Draco rolls his eyes and rubs at his hair with a towel, then promptly shakes his head, flinging droplets around their study, rivulets of ocean water sliding down his body to puddle at his feet on their wood floors. Twenty years with him and he still takes Harry’s breath away, his lanky figure and the gleam in his eyes capable of getting Harry hard in a hot second. The potions he takes regularly allow him to go out in the sun, but he’s as pale as ever, body unchanging and as slow to age as Harry’s. 

“I thought you were going to join me when you were done,” Draco says, like that’s the reason he’s come in here. He wraps the towel around his waist, flicking Harry a devilish glance when he frowns, and ambles over to the desk to pick up their assortment of mail. “Got something from Teddy.”

“I _was_ going to join you. I _am_ ,” Harry says, amused. “I’m on the last bit now, like I said, so if you’ll just—” A low, long whistle interrupts him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Draco blinks a little to himself, looking up. He passes over the letter. “I simply forget sometimes that he’s not a child anymore.”

Harry narrows his eyes. Draco’s got a fleeting sense of masculine appreciation coming off him, and though Harry may have accidentally considered how well Teddy’s grown up a time or two as well, at least _he’s_ aware it’s entirely inappropriate. “He’s my godson, you sick twist. Your _cousin._ Stop— sweet Merlin.”

“Right?” Draco walks to his side to examine the picture Teddy sent with his letter. Leaning over the back of Harry’s chair, he taps the photograph. In it, Teddy sits shirtless on his broom, two of the buttons on his low-slung, beat-up jeans undone to reveal the top of his pubic hair. His stomach and shoulders flex, all rangy, thoughtless muscle memory as he flies in lazy circles and waves at them, the ruffled cut of his hair melting from pitch black to Draco’s wintery-gold. 

“Why does he keep _sending_ those?” Harry asks exasperatedly. They’ve got a collection of photos now, almost none fit for framing, which Teddy started sending when he was all of eighteen years old. Draco nudges him with a low laugh and when Harry finally tears his gaze up, Draco’s got one eyebrow raised.

“Why do you think?” His mouth quirks. “Did you even look at his note?”

Harry tosses the picture onto the desk and glances at the note. _The season is winding down and I’d love to see you two over the break. Am I ever going to get an invitation to your hideaway? Could use a spot of fun and relaxation if you’re up for hosting a third. Let me know! Love you, Ted_

It takes a minute for Harry to absorb Draco’s implication. He laughs, but it comes out unsure. “No. No! ...Right?”

“Whatever you say.” Draco snorts, leaning in to press a slow kiss to his mouth. He tastes like saltwater, lips parting for Harry’s tongue, fangs dropping just a little as the kiss deepens. He pulls back. “So are we having a third?”

Harry blinks, trying to remember what they were talking about. He sets the letter down. Pushes it a little further away. It’s so dirty he can’t even contemplate it and so dirty that Draco, damn him, knows that he’ll be unable _not_ to. 

“That’s not what he meant,” he says firmly, with a last glance at the photograph. Draco snorts again and shrugs. 

“Then why shouldn’t he visit?” he asks, standing to prop himself on the edge of the desk. He folds his arms over his bare chest and once more raises that eyebrow in a way he knows drives Harry mad. 

“Your book is really good,” Harry says, shaking his head. He can’t think about that now. Draco tenses, shoulders spiking defensively at the return to topic, obviously uneasy, and Harry looks him in the eye. “I mean it. It’s amazing.”

Draco’s shoulders come down a little. He cocks his head. “You don’t mind people knowing—?”

“There’s no way I could possibly care less what people think of how we got together, if you’re okay with it,” Harry says. “You’ve opened your entire life to the public, but… It’s brilliant. It _should_ be published.”

Draco’s been working on it for the last six months, ink-stained fingers flying over the parchment as he muttered to himself and occasionally looked up to ask Harry a question about his own recall. He’d been interested in journalism as a human, he’d explained when Harry asked — back during what they now tend to think of as their honeymoon, in Amsterdam — because he’d always wanted to write. Reading his unbound book, it’s hard to believe he never really has before. 

“Explicit, though,” Harry says, standing and opening Draco’s thighs to step between them. Draco’s towel unknots, gapes, then falls to the desk completely, exposing the shape of his rapidly hardening prick through his wet, clinging swimming pants. Draco flattens his hands on the desk, leaning back onto them with a wickedly speculative look crossing his face.

“We’re explicit people, Potter.”

“That we are.” Harry hums, rubbing his hands over the coarse hairs on the tops of Draco’s thighs, edging their bodies a bit tighter. “In fact, I’m feeling pretty explicit right now.”

Draco laughs, head tossed back. His fangs are bared, razor-sharp, and the slow thump of arousal in Harry’s belly curls tighter, his cock growing wet at the tip in his pants.

“Give me your wrist,” Draco says, bringing his head up. Harry exhales and lifts his wrist and Draco curls his fingers around the back of it, bringing it to his mouth. He tongues over the tiny scar left by his wordless magic two decades ago, eliciting a loosening of Harry’s curled fist and a tremble from his suddenly-lax fingers. His lids lower but his eyes stay open, gaze set on Harry’s face as he pulls his lip back and presses Harry’s wrist tight to his fangs, sliding them in as sweetly as if they were already fucking. 

Draco’s jaw works with slow, calculated sucks, the flow of Harry’s blood flooding his cheeks with pink. He growls a little, finally breaking their gaze by closing his eyes, and the simple, mindless rapture Draco takes in the bite cascades from him to tease Harry’s mounting desire. Harry moves his hips in reminder, rubbing his cock against the inside of Draco’s thigh. Draco opens his eyes and pulls his fangs out. Sweeps a damp lick over the punctures. 

“Call that an advance,” he murmurs. “The current picked up when the sun started going down and I want the ocean to ride you over my cock.”

A small, frustrated sound slips from Harry’s throat before he can stop it. He steps back at Draco’s light push and watches him unfold from his position on the desk, then lick a streak of blood from his lower lip and stroll out of the wide flung doors to the ocean, smug as he’s ever been.

Arsehole.

Harry takes a few deep breaths to pull himself together. He picks up the final page of Draco’s book.

> We’ve found balance together. Neither of us ever feels owed or indebted; there is always a surplus. Every drop of blood Harry’s given to feed me and further my pleasure is paid back by my dedication to prioritising his. Every year I last to prolong his life is reimbursed by the joy he brings me each day — in ways too abundant to count.

Swallowing hard, Harry sets the parchment facedown on the stack. He conjures a ribbon and bundles the book by hand, all four edges secured with red satin, and ties it into an unkempt bow over the title before placing it carefully back on the desk.

Then he heads onto the beach, where the first stars are appearing in the sky, to where Draco is waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> Potential squick: Implied consideration of threesome with a younger (over the age of consent) man takes place in the epilogue. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are lovely. Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now! *waves*
> 
> And so is [lq_traintracks](https://lqtraintracks.tumblr.com/)!


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